For the Cause
by Bleve
Summary: It was only fitting that she would feel so strongly for him, that she would experience emotions that caused her such great inner conflict. After all, the man himself was a walking contradiction, a mixture of opposing forces. **Possible game spoilers**
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** - So much homework to do, and so little free time to write fanfiction! But, enough complaining. Just a little story (probably just a few chapters) with my take on the rebel leader, because I felt like it.

**Disclaimer** - If I owned Elder Scrolls or its characters, I would be one rich lady...and I'm definitely not.

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><p>Harsh and magnificent, frigid yet alive—some would say that she mirrored the land that she found herself fighting for. Orphaned and subsequently raised by the dark alleys of Solitude, her life had never been easy, but very few people in Skyrim could claim a charmed existence. When her childhood had been at its most difficult, she had often whimsically dreamed of returning to the land of her people. But with age came the realization that Valenwood was no better off—whether it was here with the Empire, or there with the Dominion, the life and individuality were slowly being choked out of both provinces. In time, she had eventually accepted Skyrim as her home, even though its inhabitants sometimes chose to remind her that it was an adopted one. When the rebellion began, the Empire and its agents clamped their hold down mercilessly upon the capital. She had witnessed their crushing brutality first hand on a daily basis, as supposed guards bullied and terrified residents of the slums, and that had been her cue to leave.<p>

So, she had drifted like flotsam along the Karth river, taking odd jobs be it as a mercenary or a fence, traveling from town to town. That was the status quo, until she got herself stupidly tangled in a job for a Stormcloak sympathizer and had almost lost her head over it in Helgen. Little had she known that she had actually shared that fateful wagon ride with Ulfric Stormcloak himself. Up until that time, she hadn't really cared for either side in the civil war. Certainly, she despised the Empire for what it was doing to the country, but she hadn't been impressed by the supposed Sons of Skyrim either. However, her captors' idiotic insistence that she was a rebel, combined with the sheer fortitude she had seen displayed by the Stormcloaks in Helgen, had caused her to consider their plight. Afterward, a meeting in Riverwood with Ralof, her fellow escapee and savior, had convinced her to join their ranks, and she had eventually made her way to Windhelm to sign up.

Initially, they had tested both her loyalty and her abilities, and she had eventually proven to be a valuable asset by obtaining the Jagged Crown. She had fought tirelessly and viciously in battles to claim the Holds for the Stormcloaks, earning several cringe-worthy nicknames along the way from her fellow rebels. None of them could question her tenacity, and they all seemed appreciative, but something about the overall feel of Windhelm had caused anxiety within her.

After performing a rescue operation at Fort Neugrad, the Jarl had offered her a position among his court as Thane; but it required her to purchase property within Windhelm and to offer charitable assistance to its citizens. While aiding the people, she had heard some rather disturbing things regarding the elven residents and their treatment by the Jarl, but nameless shadows and their cowardly whispers deserved little attention. It wasn't until the accusations had been voiced by some prominent folk that she gave them any weight. Of course, she had a few run-ins with some of the typical bigoted types, most notably Rolff and his flapping gums, but she had thought that to be the minority opinion. She could ignore those idiots, but it disturbed her to think that the Stormcloak leader may share or foster those views. After everything she had done for the rebellion, she deserved to know if the man she was fighting to make High King of Skyrim detested her simply because of her race. It didn't seem plausible—he had never shown her any ill will, and he had always been receptive to her suggestions in strategic matters. She would give him a chance to answer the rumors before she assumed the worst.

She returned to Windhelm after obtaining the White Phial for its resident alchemist, which completed the requisite tasks for her office. Upon arrival at the gate, she sent word ahead to the steward that she was requesting an audience with the Jarl. A few hours later, after a brief respite at Hjerim to freshen up, she found herself entering the towering throne room of the Palace of the Kings. To her surprise, the Jarl was not on his throne, but his steward was there. "Greetings, Serah. Jarl Ulfric is in his strategy room. He will meet with you there."

She walked behind the man as he led her into the room nearby. She did not need his assistance; she had been in the room multiple times, but the steward had led the way and so she followed him.

"Welcome, Bone-Breaker. I assume that you are here to collect your title."

She shook her head in the affirmative, and he granted her the title Thane of Eastmarch. He also offered her a weapon from his armory, and told her that he would inform the guards of her title. When he finished speaking, she found her courage and opened her mouth to begin the unsavory conversation she was not looking forward to.

"May I speak with you a moment, Jarl?" She was well aware of the intense look that she possessed on her face, and she hoped that the man before her would recognize it as well.

He nodded, "Leave us, Jorleif." The steward looked momentarily surprised, and then left through the doorway to the throne room. When the door was closed, he started, "I know well the weighted look that you wear, so speak freely and frankly. I value your council, and I will hear it."

"I have heard some disturbing things, my Jarl. Namely, regarding the Dunmer and others of my kind."

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, "Do you believe them to be true?"

"I have no belief yet; that is why I have come to you first…but I can't blindly ignore what I see with my own eyes."

"And what would that be?"

"That the elves are sequestered."

"That is of their own doing. There is no law written in my Hold that binds them there."

She scoffed, "So they choose to live cramped together like pigs in a sty."

He sighed, a deep tired groan, "No, they choose to live together because there is safety in numbers and I give them a place to do so."

She seethed in barely suppressed disgust, "Because you believe them below living with the Nords?"

He growled, "No, because I can protect them better in one place from the Rolff Stone-Fists of the world."

The ferocity of his response caught her off guard, and she had no retort. His lip curled in a slight smirk, "Surprised? You shouldn't be. It is my duty as Jarl to protect my people, regardless of their skin—even from each other if need be."

She paused, taking in his words before continuing, "Have you ignored their pleas?"

"Never—I realize that their situation is less than ideal—but the battle right now must be for all of Skyrim, and I have given them all that I could. I can't afford to send a guard to every perceived slight and miscommunication. Most of what has been brought to me has been petty; any real issues were dealt with."

He radiated frustration, throwing up his hands, "But, I am the Jarl, not a nursemaid, and I will not coddle anyone. Skyrim needs real men and women right now, not babes who bicker amongst themselves. I value anyone—be they elven, orsimer, or whatever—who actually contributes to this cause, as opposed to wallowing in their own miniscule issues."

A few moments of awkward silence passed between them, as the tension in the room slowly dissipated, before he continued, "Is there anything else you need to say?"

"No," she returned, too quickly.

"Then, I have a question for you, and I would appreciate the same level of candor."

He paused a moment, finding her eyes and meeting them, "Do you think so little of me that you had to ask?"

Her lips curled in a slight frown, "I needed to be sure that the man that I have been fighting to put on the throne won't see me banished or hung one day because of my elven blood."

He smiled then, a creeping grin, one that she had only seen on his face after receiving word of victory, one that she realized meant satisfaction.

"Obviously, you do not know enough about me, and that we will have to remedy."

"Jarl…"

"We can start by ridding ourselves of this formality nonsense—call me Ulfric. Galmar and Jorleif don't call me Jarl in conversation."

She hesitated, but stumbled through the words, "Very well, Ulfric."

"What is your given name?"

No one had called her by that in years. She had not gotten close enough to anyone, other than a select few in Solitude, to tell them her name. It seemed an innocent enough request, and yet strangely intimate. Her voice was low, almost shameful, "Feren."

He approached her, still holding her gaze, never wavering, "I have asked you to do much for the rebellion, and I am certain that there will be more in the future. In the last few months, I have come to rely heavily on your sword and your cunning—I trust you on the battlefield almost as much as Galmar, and I have known him since I was a boy. It is only fair that I treat you with that same level of respect, and I will do that from this day forward, I swear."

The intensity of his statement startled her, and she backpedaled slightly, "I do not doubt that you appreciate what I have done."

"Good. Then I'd like your opinion on our next move, which we can discuss over supper and ale." He beckoned with his hand, toward the door, with a look in his eye that reminded her of a hawk's predatory stare after spotting a field mouse.

"After you, Feren…"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** – Just a quick note to say that my inspiration for this chapter was "Just a kiss" by Lady Antebellum. It's such a pretty song, and in my opinion, very fitting for this chapter. I already have the next chapter well under way, so look for another update soon!

**Disclaimer** - Bethesda owns Skyrim and its characters.

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><p>The consistent, rhythmic beating of hooves upon the ground kept her mostly alert as the steed carried her onward towards the capital of Eastmarch. She disliked riding—not that she minded the horses, in fact, she found them more agreeable than most people—she just didn't enjoy the downtime that came with it. Her animal was truly a magnificent creature, far too wily for its own good—she swore that it knew the way to Windhelm better than she did. The beast's navigation skills, combined with boredom from staring at the shifting scenery, allowed her mind to wander over the events of the past few months.<p>

The rebellion had been gaining momentum, much to the delight of the Stormcloaks. The battle reclaiming Hjaalmarch had been almost too easy and having the steward in their pocket while taking the Reach had almost guaranteed victory. Galmar had sent her back to headquarters to report in after every mission, which she had initially found to be curious and then began to find annoying. After Fort Snowhawk, she had questioned him, and he had promptly informed her that she would do as told. When she pushed for an answer, he had gotten into her face, and told her that her role in carrying information to the Jarl was vital, that it proved just how much they trusted her. She had let it go after that, but there was something in Galmar's eye that led her to believe he had other thoughts on the subject, ones that he was not as eager to share.

As much as she felt like a glorified courier, she did find herself slowly but surely coming to enjoy her brief visits back to the city. It surprised her how easily her newfound friendship with Ulfric had solidified. They had spent a lot of time together discussing many varied subjects: from tactics and contingencies in his war room, to the Mer and the Nords' complicated and painful history, and all manner of things in between. No matter the topic, he truly seemed to rely on and value her input. There had even been time for banter over meals, and she had learned a great deal about the man and his background, enough that she had come to respect him greatly—an emotion that she rarely felt for others. On a few occasions, he had inquired about her upbringing, and she had even shared a little of her own past with him, something that she never had done with anyone before. Their discussions even gave her the opportunity to be the target of his wicked sense of humor, dry and sarcastic, very much like her own. When she had returned his quips with ones that matched in their intensity, he had often laughed so deeply that his eyes would crinkle. Their private interactions had taken a playful and entertaining turn, and she had found herself cherishing every moment.

The sight of the darkened stable brought her back to reality as the horse cantered into the outskirts of Windhelm. She could tell by the rise of the moon that it was well past midnight, but the news she carried could not wait, so she made her way directly to the Palace of Kings. She had foolishly hoped to find a servant awake, but found not a single one. After checking the war room, she made her way up the stairs to the bedrooms. The guard posted in the hallway simply nodded his head in recognition as she passed. She knew that his room was at the end of the hall, but she had never seen the interior. As she opened the door, peering in, she could barely make out a few things in the faint glow from the fireplace. A large tapestry with the familiar bear crest, similar to the ones in the throne room, proudly hung on the wall, as well as a simple desk, a dresser, all things that could almost be defined as nondescript. However, the huge platform and bed in the center of the room was anything but—it was ostentatious, wasteful, a behemoth raised upon a three-step pyramid that screamed unnecessary. "A bed fit for his ego," she thought smugly to herself as she proceeded inward, moving towards the vague form on the ornate piece of furniture. She knew from her own experience that you never wanted to startle a sleeping warrior, and she had hoped the noise made by her movements would wake him. When it did not, she found herself standing on the platform awkwardly, staring at him.

She had never observed him so calm—he was normally animated, constantly in action, either pacing or tapping a nervous finger against some surface. Now, the only movement was the rising and falling of his chest as he snored loudly, a lock of his fiery blonde hair clinging to the side of his face. She crossed the short space between them with her fingers to gently nudge him awake, but before she could touch him, his hand shot up, grabbing her arm. Shocked, she tried to pull away, but he had her elbow caught in the vice grip that he used as a hand. She tried to counter, and somehow ended up trapped beneath him on the bed, pinned into a submission hold.

"By the Nine, Feren!" he started, his voice shaky. "I thought you were an assassin."

She tried to ignore his crushing weight against her chest, "Clearly I'm not—I know of none that kill by poking a person in the shoulder. I can't help that you sleep like a rock and have a snore that rivals a mammoth's warning trumpet."

He sighed, loosening his grip, and she could see the smirk on his face etched by the firelight, "You know…when I have dreams about being in bed with a beautiful woman, she doesn't have nearly as much mouth."

She shoved him off of her, haughtily stating, "Well, then you must know you're awake…"

He laughed as he helped her up off the bed. She shook her head at him as she continued, "I'm here to escort you to Haafingar. Galmar thinks that it is time to strike Solitude."

It only took those few words to banish the playful side of him. His face grew dark, "Very well. We'll go by wagon; that way you can rest while traveling."

She started to protest, but he shut her down with a wave of his hand and a simple statement, "I can tell you're exhausted. Your last sleep was…?"

She grumbled, knowing where that question was leading her, "By wagon then."

He nodded, with a smile upon his face, "We'll leave in a half hour."

She turned towards the door, looking over her shoulder at him, "I need to go to Hjerim and get some supplies. I'll meet you at the stable."

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Twenty-eight minutes later, she found herself loading her gear into the back of the wagon that would carry them to Solitude. The driver was a man named Yrsarald, whom she recognized as one the soldiers from the castle, and there were two more men mounted on horseback. She heard the driver call out as she finished, "We're ready, sir."

Ulfric jumped lithely onto the back of the wagon, an impressive feat considering the heavy armor that he wore, and he offered her a hand to climb up. She took it, and when she brushed passed him, he spoke softly for her ears alone, "Let's hope this wagon ride isn't like the last one we took together."

She suppressed her laughter, but she smiled at him in response, and then she moved forward under the canopy. He followed behind her, and called out, "Then let's move out."

The vehicle lurched forward, and he motioned with his head toward the driver, "I'm going to go lay out the route we'll be traveling, in the hopes of encountering minimal surprises along the way. Why don't you get some rest."

He exited through the drapes leading to the front of the wagon before she could argue about his suggestion, and truth be told, she was too tired to do so. She pulled the drawstrings on the rear set of curtains, closing them, and then she searched for a bedroll amongst the gear. She managed to lay it out on the floor, taking up the free space in its entirety, but she had slept in much worse accommodations in her day. She removed her helmet, opting to leave the rest of her armor on. It wasn't the most comfortable, but she could sleep in it, unlike the awful plate the majority of her comrades wore. She reached for the lantern, turning the flame way down, and then she got under the blanket. In mere seconds, she had drifted into blissful semi-consciousness.

She heard movement and opened an eye to see Ulfric come back through the curtain. He stepped deliberately, making little noise, probably hoping that he wouldn't disturb her. In the minimal light, she couldn't really tell what he was doing, but it involved the storage net that hung the length of the wagon roof. Her eyelids closed, sleep beckoning, when she felt the blanket shift. Instantly awake, she saw his bare-chested form crawling into the bedroll next to her.

"What are you doing?" she hissed, keeping her voice low from the driver's ears.

He responded in a whisper, "Sleeping…something that you should be doing."

"We cannot both sleep back here."

His voice was low but it still had that familiar teasing quality to it, one that he reserved for their private conversations only, "Why not? Is it my snoring?"

She groaned in annoyance and raised her shoulder to get up, when he put a hand on it to still her. "Feren, you're being ridiculous. We both need our rest…I'd been asleep for a mere hour when you showed up to kill me."

She rolled her eyes at him, but she unfortunately couldn't argue with his logic. "Please…" he almost but not quite begged, sounding exasperated, the joke gone from his tone.

"Fine," she conceded, plastering herself against the wall of the wagon as far as she could possibly get from him, as he got comfortable within the bedroll.

"Isn't that armor painful to sleep in?" his words filled with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"It's not as painful as waking up to a fight without it." He laughed quietly, and she closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep.

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The jarring sound of wood clashing against stone, a lurch, and she awakened with a jump. Something pressed against her midsection, and she searched with her eyes in the darkness for the source. She could barely make out flesh covered in hair, clearly an arm, and then she remembered with whom and where she was. As she began to panic, Ulfric's timbre interrupted her thoughts, "Yrsarald?"

The driver called from the other side of the closed curtains, "Sorry, sir. The road is a little rougher than we anticipated."

She felt him settle back down, and his breath began to tickle the nape of her neck as blood raced through her veins. The proximity of his body, the heat, and the way his arm held her against his bare torso had her body longing in a horribly wonderful way. It seemed sinful; she shouldn't be enjoying this, but damn it, she was—it had been far too long since she had experienced the comfort of a man's arms. Every nerve ending sung for more, betraying her desire; even as her rational mind tried to chastise her, her heart thrummed loudly in her ears, reveling in the sensations.

She managed to regain some of her composure, taking a moment to process. Clearly, he was awake and aware of their positions, and instead of moving politely away, he had lain back down against her like it was where he belonged. His audacity and arrogance really had no bounds, and they never failed to amaze her. Even though she was affected by him, she wouldn't let him know it. She murmured to him, seductively, "Now I know why you were curious about the armor…if you wanted it off, you could have just said so."

She could hear the smile in his low voice, "I was concerned for you only."

"Not your tender chest?"

"Tender isn't the word that I would use to describe it. Manly, broad, muscular…all would be better."

She laughed softly, and he interrupted, "Believe it or not…you actually rolled into me."

She was thankful for the darkness, as it hid the blood rushing into her cheeks, "Is that so?"

He sheepishly admitted, "Well…the wagon might have helped."

Silence passed between them for a few moments, and it gave her a chance to further calm down. She was thinking of some really interesting ways of tormenting him—after all, what was good for the goose was good for the gander—when he continued, "Feren…"

The lightness had left his words, replaced with a serious tone. "When all this started, I knew what we were fighting against, but I had no idea how we would defeat it. Things had been going poorly long before Helgen, and then the Imperials managed to arrest me. I thought for sure that I would see Sovngarde that day, and then they made the mistake of capturing you. From that moment on, everything has changed. You are the very reason why we have the chance to fight tomorrow for Skyrim."

She growled, determined, "We will win tomorrow for Skyrim."

"Maybe so, but overconfidence has never won me any battles. We will fight bravely, this I know, and Talos willing, live to see another sunrise over Eastmarch. But, no day is ever promised, and that is especially true on the day you go to war for your country. I will give my life tomorrow if I must—I will see this to its end. But, I wanted you to know first how much I appreciate what you have done…"

She interrupted him, "I know you do, Ulfric. I have gladly done all that I could for the Stormcloaks."

His lips brushed her ear, and her eyelids fluttered as her heart raced again, "Not for the cause Feren…what you have done for _me_."

His emphasis on the last word left little doubt about how much he meant it. "Do you know that I asked Galmar a few weeks ago to stop sending you out on missions?"

"No," she whispered; it was all she could manage.

"We literally argued for hours, and it almost came to blows. He told me, 'Ulfric, she serves Skyrim, and Skyrim needs her more than you.'"

She tried to keep her breathing steady at his admission, and she felt him pull her closer against him, both of his arms now encircling her from behind, bracing her against him. His hands gripped her sides, his nails digging into her armor, locking her into place. "I knew he was right to tell me no. But, I simply did not care—I didn't want to share you any longer—I wanted you safe. Feren…I…"

"Ulfric," she interrupted, not able to bear any more of his confession, "Please," her voice cracked, "I can't hear this…not now. We need our rest."

His lips brushed the side of her temple in the tenderest of ways, a brief but comforting sensation that she planned on remembering for the rest of her days. She brought her hands up, laying them over his arms, and clutched them to her chest as she listened to his breathing become deeper and deeper. Her mind reeled at the serious turn their words had taken, and even more so at the possibility of all of the terrifying things she had managed to stop him from saying. She forced herself to believe that he was just anxious for the upcoming battle, simply a man clearing his chest before the fight of a lifetime. It meant nothing, he knew death could come calling, and so he had felt the need to connect to someone, and it just happened to be her. When sleep finally overtook her, she had convinced herself that when they both came out of this alive, with Skyrim free of the Empire, everything would go back to normal.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N** - This story was originally going to be three chapters, but now it is going to be more. How many more? Well...I don't know yet, but at least four. There is also the opportunity for bonus material, but that will probably depend upon reader/reviewer demand. The story just keeps evolving in my head, and so I'm rolling with the changes. It's like it has a mind of its own!

**Disclaimer** - Bethesda owns Skyrim and its characters.

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><p>Somehow, they had won. The clang of steel upon steel echoed in her ears, her arms burned and ached from exertion, but they were victorious—and it was all that mattered. Ulfric offered her the killing blow, but she deferred, and when the Imperial leader was dead, she heard Galmar utter, "Good…it's done."<p>

The two men exchanged words, and then Galmar left them to go gather the men in the courtyard of Castle Dour. Ulfric turned to her, offering her the pommel of his sword. "I want you to have my sword, a token of my appreciation. Now, then, the men will expect a speech. Will you stand by my side?"

He was too close, her mind swam in a sea of adrenaline, giddiness infecting every fiber of her, "I will."

He murmured, teasingly, "Now that this is over, maybe we can finish our conversation?"

Her jaw dropped, gaping, and she couldn't seem to get it to go back into place. He raised an eyebrow at her expression, smirking just a bit, "Not right now of course…later, in private."

She didn't have the heart to tell him that her shock didn't stem from the timing of his suggestion, but rather that he wanted to discuss it at all. It was the first time that he had acknowledged the eventful wagon ride from Windhelm, and she had believed this whole mess was behind them. When she had awoke that morning, alone, she had thought that he realized his mistake, and blamed all of it on a need for comfort mixed with extreme exhaustion on both of their parts. Easily brushing it off, she had focused on the life-altering battle before them, and that was all very possible because he had treated her like a fellow soldier. No words had passed between them as they fought wave after wave of Imperials in the streets of Solitude. Even when she had recklessly charged a group of three that had him cornered, all he had offered was a nod in thanks. His silence had been a welcome barrier to the turmoil that she had felt the previous night, and it had given her an edge that she had used to mow down the enemy. After all, she had wished for a return to normalcy, and his treating her like every other subordinate had allowed her to fight with a clear head.

His voice, concerned, broke her from the spell of her thoughts, "Feren…?"

"Later then," she managed to respond, finding her voice, as she gestured towards the door.

He looked at her, worry creasing his brow, as he exited through the door, and she followed him outside to the weary but delighted faces of their cheering allies. His voice boomed, resounding off the courtyard walls, as he called the men standing with them the true heroes of the war, a sentiment with which she concurred. She heard him refuse the title of High-King until the moot declared him such, which she thought a wise choice considering his desire to honor tradition. He even conceded the very real prospect that though they had won today, the war was far from over—that the Dominion could be next. Goosebumps rose on her flesh as he urged them all to help rebuild Skyrim, and she found herself admiring his eloquence and ability to rally his people. Finished with his speech, he turned to her and Galmar, "How'd I do?"

Galmar laughed before replying, "Not so bad. Nice touch about the High-King."

"Thank you, I thought so too."

"It's a foregone conclusion you know," the old man responded.

"Oh, I know," Ulfric glibly replied, and it took all her restraint to keep from rolling her eyes at the smugness that oozed from every pore of the future High-King.

Galmar continued to speak about the remaining Imperial threat, and she took the opportunity to excuse herself. As much as she admired many things about Ulfric, one thing she didn't appreciate was his inflated ego, and she wanted to check out the city to see how it had fared during the siege. She had almost made it out of the courtyard, when she heard a familiar voice call out, "Stormblade!"

She looked over her shoulder to see Ralof approaching. She turned to him, smiling, and before she was aware of what was happening, her feet were dangling in the air as she was swept into a huge bear hug. She threw her head back in laughter as he yelled, "I can't believe we won, and it's all because of you! You're an incredible woman…"

He was causing quite a ruckus, and she was enjoying the impromptu celebration with her friend. Amongst the rowdy catcalls and cheers of their fellow soldiers, she managed to convince Ralof to put her down, and she walked with him out into the city proper.

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She spent a couple of days in Solitude, enjoying her former home while delaying the inevitable. She knew that her procrastination was due in large part to the confusion she felt about the future High-King. There were times when his bloated self-worth made her nauseous and others when his infectious smile made her feel invincible. She could flat out detest his recklessness, yet admire his prowess in combat. For every positive thing she felt for him, there was a negative to match it, and still, she cared for him a great deal—they had become, whether she liked it or not, very close. He brought out emotions in her that she had never felt, and they would probably be her undoing. Just a few words and a simple touch—that was all he had done to nearly break her control. Yet, she would have never dared to approach him romantically. The realist in her, the hardened woman that she had become, knew that there was no point to those kinds of foolish thoughts.

Eventually, she made the journey back to Windhelm, and when she arrived at Hjerim, her housecarl informed her that a courier had left her an important message. She took the letter upstairs to her bedroom; she could read it after a proper change of clothes and some food. She suspected it was a summons from the Jarl anyway, and he could wait the thirty minutes it would take her to gather herself after traveling. Instead, what she opened was an invitation—to an event thrown in commemoration of the victory in Solitude. It was to be held that night in the Palace of the Kings, and of course, it required formal attire. Once again, she had to admire Ulfric's cunning—like a rat in a trap she was stuck, and he knew it. She wasn't so full of herself to believe that he was throwing a party just to see her, but her role in the rebellion had made it a necessity to invite her; and all of his motives, both celebratory and ulterior, could be fulfilled. Resigned, she decided that she would need to find something suitable to wear, when she heard a knock at the bedroom door.

"Yes?"

"Another delivery, my Thane. I'll set it down out here for you."

She heard the housecarl's retreating footsteps, and she opened her door to see a rather large brown bag with a note attached. She grabbed the note and read its brief contents: "See you tonight. Wear my sword. No wagon rides, I swear."

She could almost hear his teasing voice as she read the words, chuckling at his promise. Reaching in the bag, she found a sleek royal blue dress with a golden sash that had the familiar bear emblem of the Stormcloaks embroidered onto it. The color of the dress matched that of the tapestries she had seen hanging in the palace, and she carried it carefully over to her mirror to slip it on. A matching bear fur shawl and embellished leather belt completed the outfit, and when she placed his sword on her hip, she looked equal parts Stormcloak officer and elegant guest. She was loathe to admit it, but he was right about the sword; most in attendance would recognize the Jarl's personal blade, and the honor bestowed to her in carrying it. She disrobed, hanging the items carefully in her wardrobe, and emptied the bag to find a matching pair of slippers. The man really did think of everything.

With one nerve-wracking task complete, she spent the rest of the afternoon with a book, trying to relax. When the time came to get ready, she took a nice, long soothing bath and then got herself dressed for the evening's festivities. She opted to leave her jet-black hair down for once; she often had it pinned on her head to keep it out of the way during combat, but she didn't think that would be an issue this evening. She paused to look in the mirror, and decided that she looked acceptable. She felt apprehensive—tonight was going to be interesting at best or a disaster at worst. She descended the stairs, passing through the living area and out the door to the palace.

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From her vantage point, it appeared that the celebration was a success. The attendees were an equal mixture of Stormcloak officers and nobility from across the Holds, and she recognized the majority of them; the ones she did not appeared to be kin of the various Jarls for the most part. Dinner had been satisfying enough, and after the meal there were a few brief speeches that she managed to sit through without fidgeting. She was particularly uncomfortable in her seat at the head table—she felt as if she was a dagger in a display case—but she realized that she had little choice in the matter. The majority of the stares seemed to be coming from the direction of the Jarl, but every time she tried to catch his gaze, he was conveniently looking elsewhere.

After the formalities, the real party started: several bards began to sing and play, the guests intermingled, and the mead flowed from the barrels. Almost immediately, several women approached the table clamoring, it seemed, to speak with Ulfric. She watched their pathetic display in equal parts fascination and resentment. They acted like lapdogs, hanging on every word that he uttered, and he seemed to be reveling in it. She was fully engrossed in her observations, when the steward came over to occupy a seat beside her, "I'm glad you could make it, Stormblade."

Her false front came up, and the little white lie fell from her lips easily, "So am I, Jorleif. You did an excellent job of putting this together on short notice."

"Well, I try to keep the Jarl happy…as we all seem to be doing," as he gestured at the group of women.

She kept her face neutral, guarded, "Everyone does appear to be having a good time."

The man smirked, "I know the Jarl and he is definitely relishing the attention. Although, I suspect, he would find it more pleasurable from other sources."

She took a convenient sip from her flagon, and when she made no response, he continued in a hushed tone, "They all wish to be Queen one day…the curly haired one is Thongvor's third child, and the blonde is someone's daughter... Sorli's, I believe."

He droned on with his descriptions, and her skin crawled in disgust—at Jorleif for being a busybody, at the women for being throne-chasers, at Ulfric for being a pig, and at herself for being envious of the entire ridiculous scene. She wasn't sure if the steward was probing her for a reaction, or if he was just making small talk, but the conversation had made the somewhat tolerable party completely unbearable. A sour feeling settled in the pit of her stomach, and she eventually made the pitiful excuse of needing fresh air in order to escape the table.

It was a pleasant night by Windhelm standards, cold but not bitterly so, with a beautiful aurora that highlighted the stars. A few other guests roamed the patio with her, and she distanced herself politely from them, taking a seat on a bench near a blazing fire pit. She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the crushing weight in her chest, recognizing the despondent nag of jealousy within it. There, alone in the night with her thoughts, she chastised herself for green-eyed emotions. Her rational mind knew that she had no right, no claim to them, but it did not stop her heart from aching. It was only fitting that she would feel so strongly for him—that she would experience emotions that caused her such great inner conflict—after all, the man himself was a walking contradiction, a mixture of opposing forces. He led a rebellion against the very Empire that he at one time fought to protect. He could deflect praise to others, or soak it up like an arrogant sponge. He could be gentle and soothing with his hands, or use them to crush an axe into an enemy's skull.

Deep in her thoughts, she didn't hear the source of her tumult as he approached; but finally, his voice reached her, "Enjoying the festivities, Feren?"


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N** – FINALLY!

**Disclaimer** – Bethesda owns Skyrim and it's characters.

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><p>Alone, in the shadow of his broad form, she knew she could drop the façade and she quickly did, "No…I hate this garbage."<p>

He laughed hard, a deep roaring sound, "Well, I'm glad you're here—even if _you're_ not."

She sighed, "I know this event has a purpose, but I'm just not comfortable surrounded and outnumbered by all these uppity, septim-loving fools. I am not nobility, and I don't belong here."

He took a seat next to her on the bench, so close that she could feel the heat coming from his body, "You're more noble than most of them. But, I know what you mean—I, too, would rather be on the battlefield."

His admission sparked curiosity within her, "Really? It seems to me that you would miss the…" she paused, unintentionally emphasizing the last word in her attempt to find the right one, "…attention."

His joking nature, one that she knew he reserved strictly for those closest to him, took over as he grinned mischievously, "Well, there are some benefits to these types of social gatherings—especially if they give me the opportunity to see you in that dress."

She smiled at his obvious flattery, his carefree attitude infecting her, and so she teased him, "It is a beautiful piece of clothing. I received it, anonymously, as a gift from some rather generous benefactor."

His eyes met hers, and he leaned in closer to her, accepting her playful challenge, "Do you have many men that would send you such extravagant presents? Clearly, whomever it is, he must care a great deal for you."

Her shoulders moved in his direction, their intimate gravity pulling each toward the other, "Well, there is one man, in particular, that I thought of…"

He sighed softly, "It's almost too easy with you, Feren—too easy to get caught up in our own little world."

He paused and shook his head slightly, "You know that I normally enjoy our inside jokes, but with this particular topic, I'm done with kidding around."

In the moonlight, he looked sad, and there was a hint of pain in his voice as he continued, "So tell me, why have you not come sooner? We had unfinished business."

She had an answer, but it wasn't one she wanted to share. "I don't know…"

"I find that hard to believe. I know you and your meticulous mind—have you not thought about that night at all? It took me no more than a day to go from occupied to obsessed with thoughts of you. You asked me for a reprieve before the battle, and I respected that."

He grumbled, sounding agitated, "Once you no longer had that excuse, you opted to run like a coward instead."

Her blood boiled at the taunt, its truth digging deep, "I am not afraid of anything…"

A shrieking voice interrupted them, "There you are!"

She spotted one of the women from earlier, moving towards them from across the courtyard.

She continued, murmuring, "…but now is not the time to prove that."

Annoyed at his accusation, she intended to leave him there and let him stew, without resolution and stuck with the obnoxious interloper. But then she saw the downturn of his lip coupled with the despair in his eyes, and it caused her to whisper one word, "Tonight."

The blonde harpy was almost upon them, and her shrill voice carried in the openness, "I hate to interrupt your conversation, Jarl, but I was missing your handsome voice."

She barely heard him respond, "The feeling is not mutual."

She had to restrain herself from laughing as she got up off the bench, and the annoying little twit jumped right into her spot without even acknowledging her presence. Ulfric looked equal parts exasperated and resigned, and she was a half-second away from informing the ignorant brat about her lack of manners when she decided it wasn't worth it. She counted silently to five, finding her composure, "If you'll excuse me, Jarl. I'll leave you with your friend," her lip curling into an evil smirk.

As she walked away, back towards the hall, she could hear the woman babbling, the conversation completely one-sided. Reinvigorated by her brief chat and the promise of resolution, she figured she could stomach the party a bit longer, considering the ordeal that the Jarl himself was currently experiencing.

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Feeling mischievous, she snuck her way past the lone guard on duty in the private hallway upstairs. Most of the patrolmen had been reassigned to the more public areas during the party, and so it had been relatively simple to create a diversion. She probably could have just gone past the guard; she had done that before after all, but this time it wasn't official Stormcloak business.

His room looked very much the same as last time, and she found herself not quite sure what to do until he arrived. The bookshelves beckoned to her, and she perused the titles, settling on one she had not seen before, called Of Fjori and Holgeir. A bold but amusing plan hatched in her mind, and she left a trail of discarded items—slippers, sword, and sash—in her wake as she moved to the bed with her selection. She threw herself backwards, sinking into the mattress' depths while lounging across its width. Then, she made herself a little nest, propping herself up with numerous pillows, ready to enjoy the tale.

She realized while reading that, of course, she had somehow managed to select a love story. She had considered returning it to the shelf, thinking that maybe a more neutral choice would be better for this evening, but she found herself mesmerized by the brief yet compelling account. Two warriors, two lovers—a warning to all who read of how their love was the death of them both. She couldn't ignore the blatant similarities, and yet, Fjori and Holgeir were equals, something that she and Ulfric could never be. The people of Skyrim would never see them as such, no matter the fact that she was their champion—the very reason they were free of the Empire. She saw no possible happy ending to their story, and sadly, she realized they were even more like Fjori and Holgeir than she had initially thought.

She had come to his room seeking an end to the confusion that had overtaken them and their friendship, but a large part of her feared it would come with a price, one she wasn't sure she would be willing to pay. She valued Ulfric's companionship tremendously, but she knew they had hit a crossroads, and it was time to decide which way to go. They couldn't go back, only forward, and she realized that it might ultimately mean leaving the ranks of the Stormcloaks, possibly even the city. She wouldn't live in a state of perpetual torture, being inches from him physically but miles apart socially, with queen-wannabes constantly underfoot. There was no denying that part of her torment was the absolute physical attraction she felt towards him, but adding that layer of complexity to her already jumbled feelings would only make things worse. Engrossed in the story and her melancholy, she didn't even hear him enter the room, "Making yourself comfortable?"

She jumped upon hearing his voice, and sat up to face him. His hand reached behind his back, and she heard the click of the door lock, the simple noise generating butterflies in her stomach. "No more interruptions," he offered.

"I highly doubt that you'll get any visitors at this hour…unless you're worried that obnoxious blonde will find you again."

He smirked, "You never know. She was very persistent."

A deep growl accompanied her words, "Let's hope not, for her sake."

"It sounds like you enjoyed seeing that girl fawn over me as much as I enjoyed watching that buffoon toss you around in the courtyard the other day."

Her eyebrow arched in confusion, and then it dawned on her what he was talking about. She laughed, "Please…Ralof is a good soldier, a decent man, and a dear friend. I find it offensive that you would compare him to the likes of that airheaded waste of perfectly good flesh."

"Not interested in him then?" he asked.

"No more so than you in that ditz."

He seemed pleased with her answer, as he smiled and gestured towards her strewn-about items, "I see that you made yourself at home."

She nodded, smirking, as he walked towards her, discarding his cloak on a chair. She started to get up, but he motioned with his hand, stilling her, "Please, sit. I rather enjoy seeing you on my bed."

Heat rose across her cheeks at the comment, but she remained. He joined her on the edge of the mattress, within reach, but still maintaining some distance. They stared at each other for a few moments, each sizing the other up, as if they were getting ready for battle, and she realized that in a way they were. She took the first swing, "You were mostly right, earlier. I was avoiding this."

"Why?"

"Because nothing good can come of it."

The grin he wore was absolutely feral, "I disagree…you and I alone, behind closed and locked doors…I can think of many good things."

She shook her head, "It's not wise to mix business with pleasure."

"When it comes to you, those lines were blurred long ago."

Her insides tumbled at his words, the turmoil she felt, all too familiar. Her eyes found the floor, trying to steady herself, unable to look at him, "I was wrong then."

He sounded confused, "What do you mean?"

She took a deep breath before she began, "I thought your actions that night in the wagon were brought on by anxiety—that you were just looking for comfort before the fight."

He laughed bitterly, "Not at all. That wasn't the first time I faced death, and no doubt, it won't be the last. I said those things to you because I meant them—not because I was some war-virgin looking to clear my chest on the eve of battle."

She felt terrible shame as the words passed her lips, "It was easier to believe that they were said in fear than any alternative."

His fingertips found her cheek, raising her face to his, "Why? What more must I say or do to make you understand?"

She saw the spark of realization flash across his face too late. His lips were on hers, and everything else ceased to be. Her world consisted of elements of him: his scent, his fingers in her hair, his tongue in her mouth. There was no Mer, no Nord, no country—there was nothing that could come between them now, and she would enjoy all of him. She had struggled, fought this, and had endured briefly, but could do so no longer. She fell back, his weight excruciatingly delightful, cocooning her into the bed. Her hands trailed his chest, memorizing every nook and detail of the muscles down his abdomen. Her fingertips found themselves upon the drawstring of his pants, and his hand grasped her wrist. He broke off their kiss, gasping, a lustful look in his eyes, "Feren," he growled, "Is this…"

She stopped him by responding, "I'm through with fighting this, Ulfric. I surrender."

He groaned, bringing his mouth back to hers forcefully, while letting go of her arm. She ran her fingers along the laces of his pants, feeling each one give way as she freed it. Her hands found the hem of his shirt, and she slid it up the sides of his body. He pulled away, enough to kneel above her with his knees planted on either side of her hips, and he helped her remove his shirt. In the light from the fire, with his chest bare and pants gaping, she could see all of him, and her breath caught in her throat at the beautiful sight. Wanton need surged through every inch of her body, and she trailed a set of kisses down his stomach.

He grumbled, "You are far too dressed."

She laughed, just for a moment, before his hands grabbed the skirt of her dress, tugging it up over her hips. She lifted her arms, and he pulled it up over her head, leaving her completely exposed to him. His eyes roamed all over her, like she had seen him do to countless other foes, seeking, finding and analyzing every detail. His calloused fingers traced her hip bone as he murmured, "Amazing…"

His mouth found hers again, and she let everything go. She gave up, gave in, and gave her all to him.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N** – So, this very well could be the final chapter of For the Cause. This ending is the one that I had envisioned when I began writing, but somewhere along the way inspiration bit me in the ass, and I came up with some possible bonus content. I thought about just posting the additional material, but decided instead to give my faithful readers some say in the story, as a means of thanking them for their continued support. After all, a story belongs to the readers as much as it does to the writer.

So, what do you say guys? Does it end here or will it continue? Review and let me know.

**Disclaimer** – Bethesda owns Skyrim and its characters. I wish they would also own (and maybe even fix) their bevy of bugs in the software, but that will never happen.

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><p>The rusty, acrid taste of blood filled her mouth as she chewed nervously on her lower lip. Hours ago, she had made the irrational choice to give into that which was most base of her needs and desires; and now, she teetered on the edge between thoroughly questioning her sanity and savoring the bliss of his fingers splayed possessively across her stomach. She felt split in two, ruptured and fractured, one half of her berating her obstinate display of sheer stupidity, and the other half begging to wake him by seducing him once more. Her mental state was not helped by the physical fatigue that she felt in every sex-worn muscle; sometime during their incredible romp she had assumed control and, true to form, he had treated her like an equal. There had been no gentleness, no holding back—tried and true warriors on both the battlefield and in the bedroom. Neither of them had broken in the melee, and both of them had enjoyed the many spoils.<p>

A snore interrupted her thoughts, and his arm snuggled her closer to him, pulling her hip to rest against his abdomen. She was immediately reminded of just why she had given in—the dying embers of the fire didn't do his exquisite form justice, but luckily for her, the moonlight entering the windows highlighted each muscular bulge of his lithe body. In a simple loincloth, without his heavy cloak and fur-covered pants, she had never seen him more exposed or more achingly handsome. She couldn't resist running her hands across every inch of naked flesh, gently caressing it with longing fingertips. She stared lovingly at the face of the man who had been her complete undoing, desperately trying to cement each and every line, angle, and sensation deep into her memory. This night would come to an end all too soon, but in the meantime, she would play through their never-to-be lives together in her thoughts. Images flooded her mind: sparring matches in the courtyard, horseback rides along the White River, a glimpse of an Amulet of Mara around his neck with that familiar come-hither grin on his face. A tear slid down her cheek as the sting of futility dug into her heart, and she hated herself for her all-too-capable imagination. The barely-lit bedroom had become a tomb, a place where she would bury and mourn their impossible love. The shadows cast by her sleeping lover's form became her funeral veil, as she cried for the short-lived flash of what could have been between them. As bitterness tore through her soul and consumed her, she realized that this portion of her life was over. Never again would she feel this way for another, and the sheer unfairness of it all weighed upon her heavily.

Eventually, the faint light of dawn peeked through the window, and she knew that it was time to go. Emotionally drained, she steeled herself and lifted his arm off of her midsection, while sliding gently off the bed. She knew from previous experience that he was a light sleeper, so there was little doubt that she would wake him, but she hoped against reason that he wouldn't question her. He uttered not a peep as she stood up, and she said a quick, wordless prayer to the gods for her fortune. She crept around the room, finding her discarded dress and belongings, and put herself mostly together. She had almost reached the door when she heard his voice, "Leaving already?"

She froze in place, unable to turn around and face him, taking a deep breath before responding, "I think it's best to do so before the palace awakens."

His baritone teased, "Ashamed to be seen with me?"

She sighed loudly at his bad joke, and she felt him against her, both his breath on her ear and his hands slipping around her waist almost simultaneously, "I really don't want you to go…"

She willed her heartbeat to settle as she forced the curt words out, "It's time, Ulfric—we had our fun."

He wasn't deterred in the slightest by her rude tone. His teeth grazed her shoulder, nipping it tenderly, as he whispered, "I plan on having fun again…"

His tongue wandered, tracing its way to her earlobe, licking it gently. "And again…"

Goosebumps rose upon her flesh in response, and she tried and failed to repress the moan that escaped from her throat. His lips brushed the nape of her neck before he continued, "And again…as often as possible and for as many days as I breathe. So, if you insist upon leaving now, then you have to promise to come back tonight."

She scoffed at him, his foolishness snapping her back to her senses, "You can't be serious."

"I am."

She realized instantly what he was trying to deftly avoid, and so she pushed right to the heart of the issue, "So, how does one request a special, late night audience with you? Through Jorleif?"

His hesitation was obvious, but he tried to gloss it over. "I'm not sure that is necessary. Wouldn't it be more exciting to just sneak your way in here again?"

Even while expecting his answer, her heart still ached at the words, and she reached deep within herself for control, grasping for strength and composure. She felt her anger rising, though she tried to remind herself that he didn't deserve it. Her fists balled as she spoke, "That is an unwise course of action. Eventually we will be caught."

He spoke softly, his lips against her hair, "And eventually, I will explain the circumstances to a select, need-to-know few. But, if my idea is so terrible, what would you have us do?"

It was her turn to be ridiculous, as she flippantly responded, "I would have us do exactly what is expected: you are going to be High-King and I will continue to fight against the Empire."

He spun her around by the shoulders to face him, his voice low and agitated, "That wasn't the question I was asking and you know it."

She felt her heart shatter in her chest, as she spit the words through clenched teeth, "There is no us."

His eyes narrowed, the pain echoing loudly and clearly as he spoke, "There could be…"

She laughed coldly, right in his face, unable to restrain herself any longer. "No—there could be lots of secretive nights and stolen moments."

Further and deeper she sunk into her wretched mire, lashing out at him even when she knew it really wasn't his fault, as she continued, "That would be perfect for you, wouldn't it? You would have me here secretly keeping your bed warm, while throngs of desperate women throw themselves at you. In private, I would be your mistress, whispering for you in pleasure, and in public, I would be your Thane, answering to you in court."

The ferocity of his voice left her unaffected, "The alternative is walking away from this and I will not lose you."

Her voice broke in agony, "Can you please face reality! You will be High-King very soon and expected to marry..."

His eyes never wavered from hers—his facial expression unchanging, and a chill went up each segment of her backbone. She had seen that mask of cool calculation before, and it hadn't slipped in the slightest when she accused him of ignorance. Her words died on her lips as her feeble mind was unable to continue processing what his look now meant.

He offered, "I wouldn't be the first High-King to have that kind of arrangement with his queen. It's not a common practice, but it's not unheard of either."

She barely choked out, "Have you lost your mind?"

He sighed deeply, "My mind and my choices were and still are crystal clear: a life with you or one without you. The decision was an easy one."

She growled, her anger no longer repressed, "I won't be your whore, Ulfric—even if some vapid, shameless woman puts her approval on it. I won't stand by and watch you marry another."

He grabbed her arms, pulling her to him, their noses almost touching, "Then what would you suggest, Feren? We just walk away and act like this never happened? Ignore that every nerve and fiber of my being yearns for you alone, and somehow just go back to being comrades? That will never work, nor will it ever happen."

The finality of his statement confirmed that what she feared the most. She had long since considered leaving the city, and now she knew that doing so was the only viable option. The terrible knowledge that these would be their final words came crashing down upon her, and she despised the fact that they had to be dishonest. Tears brimmed in her eyes and splashed down her cheeks, "No, you're right. That will never work."

His fingers traced the water tracks on her face, and gently tilted her chin up to his. "Then you'll come back tonight?"

The lie came out so easily, that, for just a short moment, she allowed herself to think it true, "Yes."

Then his mouth was on hers, and she allowed herself to drown in his beautiful depths for one last kiss. She poured every ounce of herself into it and the moment, snaking her arms around his broad neck, clinging to him for life. Their love took its dying breath as he broke away, and his face was twisted in pain and despair, "Go…before I change my mind."

She fled from his room, quickly and quietly, finally sensing relief when she made it into the courtyard without being seen. Her feet never ceased moving until she reached the stable, waking its inhabitants and paying the wagon driver handsomely to take her posthaste to the border south of Falkreath. Spurred by the large sum of coin, the driver had gotten the vehicle ready promptly, and they left within moments of her arrival. As she watched the city disappear, she could hear her lover's parting words over and over again in her head. Somehow, he had known her plans to leave—maybe had known all along—and still he had let her go. She sobbed silently, her tears splashing onto the floor as her body shook and convulsed. Self-loathing settled in her gut at her own stubborn pride, wishing that for just once, she could have been weak enough to accept the pseudo-relationship he had offered. Guilt followed soon after, flooding through her, as she realized that he had allowed her to deceive him, because it had been better to believe the lie than face the truth. Her quiet plea barely broke the silence of the morning, "Forgive me, Ulfric…"


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N** - After receiving many resounding "yeses" to continue the story, I have decided to do so. I was delayed, however, because I injured my arm in early April. Let me tell you, that being under doctor's orders to type and/or write as little as possible in our technology driven society, absolutely sucks. I'm on the mend, so I decided to post this brief transitional chapter to slowly ease my arm back into the swing of things. The next and much longer chapter will be soon to follow.

**Disclaimer** - I still don't own Skyrim.

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><p><em>2nd of Hearthfire, 4E 202<em>

_F- _

_Running is a typical response on your part, but making for the border—into enemy territory—are you insane? Do you realize what they would do to you? You are taking an incredible risk and a pointless one at that. You belong here, where you can make a difference. Punish me if you'd like, but don't punish Skyrim. Now, get back here before I send a regiment to claim you._

ΩƱ ΩƱ ΩƱ ΩƱ ΩƱ ΩƱ

_14__th__ of Frostfall, 4E 202_

_F-_

_The moot was held and the results were as expected. I have even started to enact some laws, trying to alleviate some of the tension between the Mer and the Nords. I know it's just the beginning, but I like to think that the country is moving in the right direction. Several people have inquired of you, even Ralof apparently asked Galmar where you were. I have told them all that you had business elsewhere to take care of, but I suspect none of them believed that; they all knew how committed you were to the rebellion. Your silence after I sent the first letter was telling, and maybe, in retrospect, demanding your immediate return and threatening to come after you was a bit out of bounds. So, instead, I'll appeal to the soldier within you. We are constantly fighting off attempts to retake Solitude, and there have been several unofficial skirmishes along the southern border. Come back for the cause—your brethren need you._

ΩƱ ΩƱ ΩƱ ΩƱ ΩƱ ΩƱ

_9th of Sun's Dawn, 4E 203_

_F-_

_I've tried being angry with you and I've tried reasoning with you, both to no avail. Now, I'll just beg. I haven't spent one night in my bed, I just can't. I've been going through the motions, doing what is required of me, but it all feels pointless without you. When you left, I thought you needed space, that you would eventually find your way back. That expectation has kept me going, but as time passes, I fear that you aren't coming back. I miss our jokes, your strategic brain—I have never had more power or control than I do right now, and yet, I feel hopeless against this creeping anxiety that I will never see you again. Please come back to me._

ΩƱ ΩƱ ΩƱ ΩƱ ΩƱ ΩƱ_  
><em>

_12th of Rain's Hand, 4E 203_

_F-_

_I've never received a response to any of the letters I've sent, but I wanted you to hear this directly from me, even if you're not hearing it for the first. I'm taking a queen, and there's going to be a public ceremony. My duty is clear, but it will not make it any easier to do. I am sorry. _


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N** – A mundane task, like typing, has never been so liberating! You really don't realize what you have until it's gone.

**Disclaimer** – Still not getting any stock dividends or royalty checks in the mail from Bethesda, so clearly I do not own Skyrim in any form.

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><p>She took a deep breath of chilly air, her fingers trembling as they traced the sheets of parchment. The dog-eared letters all shared his terse, chopped script written bluntly on heavyweight paper—her frequent readings hadn't managed to dull the handwriting. Time had done very little to make her forget his voice, and she could hear it clearly in her mind, narrating as she read each note. She had found herself needing motivation more often than not recently, and the letters fed a primal anger that simmered deep within her, fueling her to be more brutal and calculating.<p>

A long, bone-weary sigh escaped from her lips as she stuffed them away in her travel bag. She was so very tired, but that was all her life consisted of anymore—varying degrees and states of exhaustion. She laughed bitterly to herself as she dwelt upon just what her life had become in what seemed like such a short span. When she left Skyrim two years ago, she had initially settled in the town of Bruma. The city was unique—part of Cyrodiil and the Empire, but inhabited by many Nords who still held true to their beliefs. It had reminded her of the place she knew as home, and so she had decided to stay, since she could only blindly run so far and had absolutely no plan or idea of what to do. At the time, she had thought it far enough out of his reach, but of course, he had found her there and began sending letters. She had ignored them, even though it had pained her deeply to do so—corresponding with him would have just caused more suffering on both of their parts. Even while recognizing that concession, she couldn't convince herself to discard his letters. She had read every one obsessively, hungry for the simple but desperate connection.

Over the months, she had slowly built some wretched semblance of a life in Bruma. Ample mercenary jobs kept her busy and filled her pockets, but when his last note arrived, it had thrown her into a tailspin. She had known the day would come, had plenty of time to process all of the horrible what-ifs, more than ample time to face reality. She had accepted long ago that she could never be his wife—she was of common blood, an orphan, but more importantly, a Mer. While there was no specific law that forbade it, any kind of official relationship would have surely caused a huge schism amongst countrymen in a land that still wore the fresh scars of civil war. Even though they had never spoke of it, the fact that Ulfric himself had seen her as a potential mistress had solidified her belief that she could never be queen. Not that she had necessarily wanted to be, she just wanted him, and that meant the unfortunate and contentious title came with it.

She had prepared herself to feel heart-wrenching grief at the news of his impending nuptials, but instead, she had felt nothing but fury and rage. Somewhere along the way, with distance offering clarity, she had realized that she might have worn the mantle of queen willingly and done a damn fine job, if he had only supported her instead of relegating her to becoming his whore. Resentment and disgust had settled within her, damning him for not even considering the possibility. Anger at him, at herself, at the whole unfair situation became her source of bitterness, and she hardened herself to everything and everyone. Tears no longer fell, her heart no longer sank; she had become impervious to emotion.

In that dark place, she had dealt the final deathblow to anything that Ulfric and she had shared. It was a cold and harsh awakening, and it had enabled her to realize that she had been unconsciously waiting for the impossible. She had been in limbo for months, twiddling her thumbs, while he had moved on. She had allowed herself to get tangled in her lover's web, and lost herself and her home in the process. That was the day she vowed to herself that she would sit idly by no longer, and her new life began as the oath crossed her lips.

Not long after, news of the wedding celebration and details about the future Queen of Skyrim reached Burma. Ulfric had shared no information in his letter, and for that she had been grateful; so she had been completely caught off guard when she heard the identity of his soon-to-be wife. Out of all the women in Tamriel, the last she would have expected him to marry would have been Elisif the Fair. Forget the absolutely well-known fact that Elisif hated the man who killed her husband; the woman was a stuck-up, blathering, Imperial lap dog. Personally, her dislike of the Jarl of Solitude stretched back to her time as a resident, and she had been extremely weary of Ulfric's decision to allow her to remain in power. She realized that their union was probably more a political arrangement than anything else, but it still irritated her, like rubbing fire salts in an unhealed wound.

Eager to get back into battle and ready to escape all of the gossip that reminded her about the past, she left her pseudo-home when rumors of frequent and escalating skirmishes with the Imperials near the border of High Rock had reached her ears. Her hatred of the Empire had always been one of her greatest motivators, and it had been with her long before the Stormcloaks had entered her life. If they were causing trouble, maybe she could find some way to help, and in the process reconnect to the street-wise orphan from Solitude that she once was. She was long past caring about anything else.

Not long after arriving, she had come across a small farm, and had sought shelter for the night from the owners. While approaching the house, she had viewed a small group of Legionnaires inside, commandeering the property for their needs. They tossed the family out, and when the man dared to complain they threatened the lives of his wife and children. As she watched the sad group retreat down the road, she recognized the familiar look of terror in the toddler's innocent, bloodshot eyes and something snapped within her. She had always despised the Empire, but this group of filth—they were disgusting, less than human. No warrior with any shred of decency or pride would raise a sword against a child. After the light went out in the farmhouse, she had crept toward the building, finding every last one of the scumbag Imperials, and slit their throats as they slept. They had earned no better treatment—they had deserved to be slaughtered like the pigs they were.

She stretched her limbs, pulling herself free of her morose recollections. Begrudgingly, she realized that stumbling across that farmhouse had provided her with a purpose. Ever since, her life had consisted of hunting pockets of soldiers along the border, doing whatever she could to hamper the efforts of the Imperials. She lived a nomadic and chaotic existence, mostly camping under the stars and only going into towns to get necessary supplies. She had even resisted seeking assistance; multiple times in her travels she had come across Stormcloak camps. Ultimately, she had decided to avoid them, opting instead to continue to work alone. There was something more satisfying about taking her enemies down all by herself; no one else could stake a claim to the adrenaline rush and she didn't have to worry about watching anyone's back. She had become a solitary harbinger of death, honing her stealth and dagger skills, her only goal the destruction of the Empire. Not that she always killed the soldiers she found—more often than not, she toyed with them by stealing their weapons or food. On more than one occasion, she had spooked the supposed warriors of the Empire so badly that they had fled the "ghost" that haunted and tormented them in their camps.

This evening's entertainment involved a recently discovered group of Imperials that were hiding out not too far from where she was currently camped. They were building numbers here, clearly fortifying their strength for some reason, and she was determined to figure out what they were up to. The day before, she had tracked a small scouting party back to the main encampment, and tonight, under the cloak of darkness, she intended to search it for clues. Gathering up some supplies and her weapons, she readied herself, and before leaving, made sure to give Banshee enough oats. She ran her fingers along the horse's muzzle, while she murmured soothingly, "I'll be back in a few hours." Even though she knew the animal couldn't understand her words, they still seemed to calm it nonetheless.

She moved her way quietly through the woods, glad that Masser and Secunda were high in the sky and illuminating the trees. She had learned the layout of these lands well in her travels, and she found her target relatively fast. As she approached the enemy's camp, she slowed her movements to decide the best plan of action. She noticed the canopy above the base was pretty thick, making her decision a relatively easy one. She climbed a nearby pine, easily shifting her weight from foot to foot as she rose higher in the boughs. Once she was up far enough, she began slowly moving laterally above the camp. She often stopped to listen to conversations, most of them mundane—chats about ale, swords, and women—typical soldier subjects. More towards the interior she crawled, listening and observing, until she approached a large tent almost in the middle of the camp. Experience told her that the senior officers would be found there, and she paused above it.

Two distinct voices reached her ears, tension clear in their pitch, but she was unable to make out the words. She needed to get closer. Scanning the area, she spotted two watchmen, one on patrol, the other posted near the door of the tent. She waited for the patrolmen to reach the far side of the camp, and quickly made her way down a nearby tree. The poor man guarding the door never knew what hit him, as she felt the crunch of his cervical vertebrae. She pulled his lifeless body behind the tent as she listened to the argument coming from inside the structure.

"Reinforcements are still arriving! It is pointless to launch the assault."

"Striking now gives us the upper hand. They won't know what hit them until it is too late."

"Give it one more day. We will have hundreds more men here by then."

"No, we must move before they become suspicious. We already have some men positioned outside of Solitude, and I have sent word for them to attack. The traitorous bastard has been High-King long enough…"

Her heart pounded at his mention, even after all these years, drowning out the words of the men in the tent. A visceral reaction, her need to protect him at all costs, caused her fingers to squeeze the hilt of her dagger even harder. No matter how long it had been, and regardless of whatever he was or was not to her, he was still the rightful King of Skyrim. She would punish any lackey of the Empire who would attempt to dethrone him.

The voice continued, cutting through her thoughts, "Our plan will not fail—we have information from Elisif that we must act on. He will finally hang from the gallows of Castle Dour for the crimes he has committed against us."

Elisif! She was up the tree before she even realized that wood was beneath her fingers, and lucky for her, the patrolman was nowhere to be found. She leapt from branch to branch, clearing the camp and then hit the ground running. Her lungs burned by the time she reached her horse, and she quickly grabbed the few things she couldn't stand to leave behind. Banshee sensed her panic, and galloped faster than she thought possible in the direction of Solitude. It would take her the better part of a day to reach the city, but she refused to accept that she might be too late.

Once underway, she allowed herself a moment to replay the conversation she had overheard in her mind. Clearly, the Empire had been planning this for some time, and the fact that they had that deceitful and manipulative bitch's help in doing so made her all the more determined to destroy them. She had one small advantage in her intimate knowledge of the city, and she hoped that the King still had capable warriors at his side. As the horse's footfalls echoed through the night, anger and vengeance flooded through her veins at the thought of the Empire attempting to reclaim Skyrim. She would wear the blood of every single Imperial fool who stood in her way, and crush their pathetic attempt at regicide—they would not have him.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N** – Healing arm + happy reviews = More story! I would just like to say, that I appreciate every single review I have received for this story. Every time I have hit a block, someone has come along to review and push me in the right direction. A special thanks to Mizpinkypu and VanDoe for their multiple reviews.

**Disclaimer** – I do not own Skyrim.

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><p>A chill rolled down her spine at the sensation of cool, damp stone against her neck, as she pressed her body against the wall, hiding in its shadow. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the dimly lit corridor, its familiarity another boon to her mission. There was a lot of irony in breaking into this particular jail, since she had broken out of it numerous times in her life. At the end of the hallway, the light barely illuminated the ceiling of the rotunda, and previous experience told her that cells lined the outer, lower level. If he had been captured alive, they would keep him there while quelling unrest and preparing the gallows.<p>

The acrid smell of burning flesh and wood reached her nostrils, and she had to bury her face in her arm to keep her eyes from stinging. Earlier, she had seen the grey billows rising above the city as she approached, and she knew that it meant the battle had begun. Resisting the urge to join the fray, she had instead led Banshee across the Karth River, stashing her on the opposite bank with an abundance of oats and praise. After that, she had swum back across, heading underneath the land bridge that Solitude sat upon. A door there led right into the city, and it was often used by the more nefarious residents, especially those seeking to go unnoticed.

The Blue Palace had been the first place she thought to go, as it would be his residence when he was in the city. She hadn't gotten far when she turned a corner and got a line of sight to the structure. Heavy, black smoke had poured from every opening, everything other than stone completely ablaze. A keening, guttural screech reached her ears, and she had thought it was the sound of the building about to give way. It wasn't until her feet were carrying her towards Castle Dour that she had realized she was the source. Her options had been clear: he would either be alive and imprisoned, or she would kill every single Imperial in the city until they struck her down to join him.

Even now, inside the castle, she could hear the sounds of battle not far away, screams blending with the sounds of metal clashing together. Death was thick in the air, and as a huntress, she knew its pungent odor well. She inhaled it deeply, letting it push her, feeling the rage settle in her fingers as they flexed on the hilts of her weapons. The mantra kept playing though her mind, keeping her focused, "Find him first—alive or dead—you must know. Then you can turn your blade on the Legionnaires."

She crept along the wall towards the opening, the stairwell that would take her down to the cells just slightly further ahead. As she came closer, she could make out the outlines of two guards near the door, their backs facing her in complacency. She drove her dagger hilt-deep into the spine of one of them, dropping him instantly, and grabbed the other's shoulder with her free hand. The woman spun around, starting to squeal, before she crushed her windpipe in her grasp. She stepped over the corpses and followed the circle around until she found the stairs, pausing at the landing in the middle to listen for more guards. Her ears processed familiar sounds: shuffling feet, the scraping of a chair, and then the tired groan of an exhausted man. She peered around the corner, finding a guard's seated form at a table to her left. Her blade found his jugular easily, a small gurgle the only noise that escaped him as he slumped onto the table. The bend in the corridor in front of her obscured her view of the cells, but she could hear the voices of several more guards.

"Do you think he'll come to at some point?"

"Dunno…Berley and Venmire pummeled him pretty good upstairs. They prolly would have killed him if Henric hadn't told them to stand down."

"I hope he does—just so that he's conscious when they hang him in the square—awake and in pain. Maybe they'll leave his corpse there to rot as a warning to the rest."

"Alive—he's alive." The words screamed in her mind, drowning out her enemies' insufferable laughter, which quickly turned to screams as she thrust her dagger into the kidney of one guard and swept the legs out from under the other. The first man staggered, making a feeble attempt at drawing his sword before she could mercifully snap his neck. The second guard lunged at her, swinging his axe, and she jumped back into the hallway, abandoning her dagger. She drew her sword from its hilt on her back, goading him with a wave of her hand. Blinded by fury and pain, her prey charged at her. At the last second, she slid to her left, watching the man's momentum carry him past. She spun with all her force, and with both hands, shoved the blade up to the hilt through his abdomen. His hands grasped at the wound before he collapsed, blood pouring from his gaping mouth.

Foot against back, she yanked her sword free of the scum's corpse, wiping the blade clean on his legs. She found her dagger, and then, a burning torch nearby on the wall. She pulled it down uneasily, body shaking with adrenaline and in anticipation, thrusting it toward each gate in search of him. In the back corner of the fourth cell, her eyes settled upon the shaggy, familiar fur of his pants, and then the broad, muscular span of his back. Bruises highlighted his skin, and his normally blonde hair was matted and encrusted with blood. He was not moving; his breathing shallow and ragged. She called to him, half in awe that he was still alive, and half in pity for his condition, "Ulfric…"

His head lolled towards the light, his eyes half closed and voice delirious in semi-consciousness, "I welcome death if it shares the voice of an angel. Have you come to lead me to Sovngarde?"

She snorted in spite of the fear that was welling up in her throat, "I'm no angel, and you haven't earned Sovngarde yet."

She worked the lock, her shaky hands causing her to break several picks in the process. "Stay with me, Ulfric."

She could still hear his gasps for air, and she comforted herself in the knowledge that it meant he was still alive. A click echoed through the cell as the tumblers finally lined up, and the door creaked open slowly. She was at his side in a flash, grasping in her bag for a healing potion, pouring it into his mouth as his head lay in her lap. He sputtered, the liquid running down his throat as he began to regain his senses. Eyes she would know anywhere—the iciest blue-green, like the frozen waters of Yorgrim—found her face, and his lips moved, "Feren…"

She nodded, relief flooding through her body as she cradled his face in her hands. "We have to get out of here before they figure out what is happening. Can you move?"

He sat up in reply, his voice quivering just a bit as he did so. "I can. But, I can't leave without finding Elisif."

She didn't care to repress the disgust in her voice, "She's not worth being found."

"What are you talking about? She's the Queen of Skyrim…."

"She's also the reason you're in a cell right now."

His eyes narrowed, their corners wrinkling in confusion. "What do you mean?"

She couldn't hold back the hatred that laced each word, "She's been feeding information to the enemy…"

Pain and anger passed across his face at her words. "You know this to be true?"

She lowered her head just slightly; it couldn't be easy for him to hear the source of his betrayal. Her voice was low, apologetic and full of pity, "They named her specifically…I heard it with my own ears."

He sighed, deep and exhausted, a sound she had heard cross her own lips far too often. "It's not possible. They took us both into custody."

She couldn't stop herself from growling at him, his disbelief annoying her. "Then, where is your Queen now? She surely isn't caged here alongside you—I've searched each cell, and she is nowhere to be found. Convenient, isn't it?"

"Maybe she escaped…"

She shook her head at his absolute foolishness. Like most men, he was loathe to admit when he was wrong, but this was a new level of stubborn ridiculousness, even for him. It made her blood boil. "Then stay here and find her, but you will do it alone. I will not help you seek a traitor—even if leaving you ultimately means that the Empire retakes Skyrim. At least the country will be rid of an idiotic ruler who refuses to see the truth."

He lunged at her, his forearm against her throat as he pinned her to the ground, "You have a lot of gall to speak of traitors, Feren. You abandoned your post, and left your country when we needed you the most."

She spit in his face, hissing, "We, Ulfric? Skyrim or you? How dare you compare me to that two-faced, conniving back-stabber that you call a wife!"

The sound of distant voices interrupted their argument, and she stared at him, waiting for his decision. He rolled off of her, and she jumped to her feet, leering at him as she spoke. "I'm getting the hell out of Solitude. Do whatever you wish."

She moved towards the door, stopping for a moment while she reached over her shoulder. She pulled the familiar sword from her back, allowing its heft to rest in her hands one last time. She had carried this weapon for years, unable to ever part with the gift he had given her, but now, it was time. She turned to him, throwing the blade at his feet, disgust and disappointment heavy in her tone, "Take care of yourself, Ulfric. I no longer blindly follow fools."

She walked back into the rotunda, and moved toward the cell that she hoped still contained her exit. It took her but a few seconds to pick the door, nerves not aggravating her this time, and then she walked in, back towards the wall, searching it with her fingertips. Her fingers dug into the mortar, and she felt the first brick give way. She heard his voice over her shoulder, "Will you allow this fool to follow you?"

She turned to him, her eyes finding the sword in his hands, his face etched with lines of exhaustion and fear. The word came out effortlessly, reassuring them both, "Always."

He crossed the room, reaching out for her shoulder, but at the last second, he held back, hand falling to his side. "I'm sorry, Feren. I…"

The words stopped short, his voice heavy with anguish and pain. An awkward pause passed—she wasn't sure how to comfort him, and his anxiety was evident as he balled his fists at his side. A scream cut through the silence, breaking the trance, and she turned back to the wall, hastily pulling out more bricks. He joined her, welcoming the distraction, and within moments there was a hole large enough for them both. She nodded for him to go first, and they made their way down a long stone passage that ended in a ladder up to the city proper. He started to climb, and she tugged at his leg, motioning for him to stop. He jumped back down, and she tried to ignore his bulging eyeballs as she removed the cloak she wore over her armor, tossing it at him.

"Put it on. It's chaos out there, but anyone would recognize you."

He nodded, "Where are we going?"

"There's a passage under the castle that leads to the banks of the Karth. We swim and then we get as far from Solitude as we can."

He slid the hood over his head as he grumbled, "I don't like the idea of running."

"Neither do I, but there is no other option. Your troops are outnumbered—being run through or run out of the city. Enemy reinforcements are on the way, even as we speak."

"It is my duty as High-King to fight for my country…"

"It is your duty as High-King to survive! Who would lead Skyrim in your place?" She tried and failed to keep her voice even, the raw emotion seeping through, "Solitude can be reclaimed, Ulfric, but your life cannot."

Before her mouth and heart could betray her further, she scurried up the ladder and into the city.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N** – I don't think that I have ever bawled my eyes out while writing a chapter. I mean, I might have shed a tear or two once or twice before, but this time I was literally crying so hard that I couldn't see the computer screen while typing. It could just be hormones, but be warned readers, this one will tug at your heartstrings. If it doesn't, check for a pulse.

Also, I would like to again thank all of my reviewers for their lovely words and opinions. It's always nice to see the story from another perspective, and I enjoy reading them immensely.

**Disclaimer** – I do not own Skyrim or its characters. They belong to Bethesda.

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><p>His fingers dug deeper into her hips, trying to hold on for dear life, as Banshee carried them roughly across the swamp land of Hjaalmarch. The poor beast was doing its best at bearing the cumbersome additional weight, going slower than her normal pace but still making somewhat decent speed through the watery muck. Their escape from Solitude had been relatively uneventful—Ulfric wasn't recognized, and many of the Imperials had either been occupied with the main battle or trying to secure the castle. Only one small group had stood between them and freedom, and before Ulfric was even able to charge the unlucky attackers, she had taken down two of them with her daggers while finishing off a third. She had noticed the look of surprise and awe on his face at her unfamiliar fighting style, but had let it pass without words.<p>

They had been riding in anxious silence for at least a few hours now, according to Masser's climb, and it didn't appear that they were being followed. That was welcome news, since they would need to stop and rest soon. Every muscle and bone ached within her, and the chill she felt from her damp clothes made her shiver. Their swim across the Karth had been taxing but necessary, a natural deterrent to any who may try to follow. Ulfric was holding up remarkably well, all things considering, and she knew that if she was feeling weary then he had to be beyond exhausted.

She scanned the horizon, shifting in the saddle to get a better view and trying her best to keep her weight off of her injured companion. Riding two in a saddle was not at all simple, especially when fatigued; but they seemed to be, for the most part, moving together in tandem by accommodating each other's body movements through the natural rise and fall. Sitting in his lap was extremely uncomfortable for a plethora of reasons, but they had little choice while fleeing with only one horse. Tension and frustration loomed unmistakably between them, creating a huge mental rift even though they were mere millimeters apart physically; and neither of them seemed willing to acknowledge, let alone speak of, the forced intimacy. She felt his chin brush against her shoulder, his lips so very close to her ear, "See any place to stop?"

She nodded, pointing at a rocky cliff in the distance. "Up ahead, on the left. Looks promising…maybe a cave."

Accepting his silence and the sensation of him leaning back into position as agreement, she led the horse towards the rocky outcropping. His behavior during their ride had been out-of-character and truly unexpected; he was noticeably going out of his way to not take advantage of their situation, using great care to handle her as little as feasibly possible. Knowing his penchant for teasing, she had thought for sure that he would take every opportunity to harass her as much as he could. She found his actions both enlightening and disconcerting—it was so very unlike the man she used to know, but it was foolish of her to assume that time would leave him unaltered. Unfortunately, what had not changed was the absolute physical reaction she had to his touch, and she hated herself for the fact that a small part of her was lamenting the lack of intentional contact.

The land started sloping upward, and she tugged the reins gently, letting Banshee know that she could take her time. Eventually, they reached a small plateau, hidden by vegetation and vines so thick that she hadn't seen it earlier. She stopped the animal, "This will do."

Swinging her leg over the saddle, she welcomed the chance for a little distance between them. Thinking clearly around him had always been a challenge, and she needed her mind focused on the task at hand, not on his puzzling conduct. He managed to get down on his own, but she noticed that as he landed he pulled up on his left ankle while wincing slightly. She motioned her head toward the precipice, its slight, rocky shelf projecting out, offering natural shelter, "Why don't you rest. I'll get camp set up."

He gave her a look of incredulity, and she sighed in exasperation. Maybe time had changed some things about him, but it hadn't touched his stubbornness. "Fine…" she conceded, "Build a fire. I'll take care of the horse."

They worked in silence completing their respective chores. The last visitors to the site had left a mostly-constructed, makeshift fire pit, so she felt better about allowing him to take that task. She gave Banshee a good, solid rub down, thoroughly looking over her shoes and legs for any injuries. She had just started to unpack the animal's load when she noticed him trying to sneak off the ledge. "Where are you going?"

"To get firewood."

She shook her head, having had enough of his pigheadedness, and moved in front of him to cut off his escape route. "Sit down, Ulfric. You won't be gathering wood with that bum ankle."

He groaned, a pathetic and annoyed noise, "Does anything get past you?"

Her patience shrinking and her exhaustion growing, she flippantly responded, "No. Now rest, before I break the other ankle to match."

For just a split second, she thought she saw a small, jovial smirk on his lips, "It's a crime to threaten nobility with bodily injury."

She rolled her eyes at him before she turned to walk down the slope, "Then have me arrested when we reach a town."

It took her a decent while to find enough materials for the fire; the branches and twigs she came across were on the small side and so she had to gather quite a few, but they would serve their purpose. By the time she had returned, he was sitting quietly next to the fire pit. From a distance she thought he might be sleeping, so she crept about silently, trying to leave him undisturbed. As she approached in the dim moonlight, she could barely make out the open travel bag on the ground next to him, and she froze in realization of her careless oversight.

"I thought I would return the favor, and help you finish with the horse. Imagine my surprise when I found these," disappointment barely perceptible in his tone. He turned his face up to hers, away from the papers in his grasp, "You kept every one?"

Panic was her initial reaction, but she quickly got her emotions under control. She had no reason to feel guilt over keeping the letters, but her stomach was still flipping wildly at their presence in his hands. Pulling herself together and swallowing the lump in her throat, she managed, "Yes."

"For what purpose?"

Her emotions flared at his demanding tone—she owed him no explanation and it was none of his damn business. She gave him the truth without any detail. "Motivation."

"Motivation?" he sneered. "It clearly wasn't enough to get you to write back. You couldn't be bothered to respond?"

He was baiting her temper, daring her to fly off the handle at him, but she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of unhinging her. She knelt on the ground, arranging the wood into an orderly pile within the pit, before asking evenly, "What good would that have done?"

He clamored to his feet, clearly agitated. "It would have meant that you were alive!"

She shrugged while lighting the kindling, ignoring her instinct to mimic his posture. "You knew I was alive. You kept sending letters, and I'm fairly certain that you grilled the poor courier for any information he had."

"I did. But then you disappeared from Bruma without a trace."

She offered a vague explanation in a dismissive tone, "I found a new home."

"And new skills, apparently. I hope they were worth the price of turning your selfish back on your comrades." He shook his head, like a father would while scolding a child, "You knew, but didn't care, that the Stormcloaks needed you—that Skyrim needed you."

She sighed, patience and self-control waning at his mention of her betrayal. His obnoxious reminders of her past behavior were unnecessary—she was well aware of her own shortcomings. But, High-Kings who live in glass palaces shouldn't throw stones, and she had grown tired of his high and mighty bullshit. She wasn't perfect, and neither was he. Through with playing defense, she attacked him, "Stop hiding behind your country. Skyrim didn't stop sleeping in its bed because I left!"

He laughed, a cold, bitter sound, "Don't fool yourself, woman. I moved past that a long time ago. Elisif made it very easy to do."

The flames danced in front of her kneeling form, urging her on—they burned and so could she. "Elisif married you so that she could manipulate and backstab you, and then she handed your ass to the Imperials on a silver platter. What's worse is that you fell for it like a fresh-off-the-tit sap."

His eyes narrowed as he spit the words, "She was very convincing—judicious and wise in her actions as queen, and more than accommodating in the bedroom. She filled a void that your absence left."

"Impossible. I was never to be your queen. You wanted me as your secret plaything, and nothing more."

Beyond furious, he lashed out, his hand trembling as he pointed down at her, "I can not make a queen out of a skittish street-rat who shirks her responsibilities! You took an oath as a Stormcloak to protect Skyrim!"

Her leap across the fire startled him just enough to take a step back, and she flew into his face, fuming, bumping his chest with her own. "Hypocrite! You have no right to speak of broken oaths."

He reached for the axe at his side without breaking eye contact, and she heard it clatter on the ground beside them. "Now, we get to the heart of the matter. What was between us should have been just that—between us. If you were mad with me, then you should have made me suffer. Yet, you decided to take your anger at me out on an entire country, on a people who relied on you. You abandoned your brethren when they needed your sword the most."

Her hands clenched at her sides, aching to be swung, and she roared at him menacingly, "I did what I had to do."

"That doesn't make you any less of a coward."

He barely managed to duck her punch as it sailed toward his face, and he grabbed her passing wrist with his hand in defense. Instantly, the fingers of her free hand found the hilt of her dagger, and without thinking, brought it to his throat, holding it there. He growled, looking from the blade up to her eyes, "You would raise your weapon against me, unarmed?"

The knife vibrated against his skin, her entire body shaking with rage. "You no longer know me, Ulfric."

"I will always know you, Feren. Do what you must."

Locked in place with neither of them willing to budge, she stared him down while he did the exact same to her. She could hear his aggravated breathing and see the furious pulse of his carotid under the silvery, sharp edge of her dagger. He was clearly agitated, but so was she—and she knew he could easily see the sweat forming on her brow and feel her trembling limbs. Minutes that seemed like hours passed, and eventually, his free hand came to rest on her elbow. When she didn't respond, he slowly and deliberately moved it down her forearm to the weapon, gently pulling it away from his neck.

The sight of his fingers intertwined with hers around the hilt broke something deep within her soul, and she lost all control and composure. Wails of agony and guilt pierced the quiet night, as she finally let go of the burden of pent-up emotions that she had carried for so very long. Her vision blurred—two years' worth of shame, frustration, and heartbreak forcing the tears to flow from her eyes. Her legs buckled, knees stinging as they met the ground forcefully, the sensation jarring her into letting go of the dagger. She heard him toss it to the ground, ebony metal chiming loudly against the rock, and his warm, calloused hands found her biceps. Brawny and familiar arms pulled her in, encircling her, and she feebly swatted at them before she collapsed against him, sobbing. Her body spasmed, convulsing in defiance of his touch, and if possible, she cried even harder as her chest and throat burned. Through her anguish, she weakly resisted—punching and kicking, biting and clawing—anything to chase him away; but he was unmovable, like the stone used to build the Palace of Kings. Hazy and spent, the last sensations before exhaustion claimed her were of his heartbeat pounding against her ear and his thumb stroking her cheek.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N** – Wow. Thank you everyone for your wonderful reviews, you guys really know how to inspire a gal to write. Also, I would be very neglectful if I didn't mention that I was extremely inspired in writing this chapter by the song "Shake It Out" by Florence + The Machine. If you guys haven't heard it, it's absolutely fantastic, and it's really super-fitting to this chapter. Take a listen; y'all will know what I mean.

**Disclaimer** – I do not own Skyrim or any of its characters.

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><p>Gurgling, like the sound of a small brook running over rocks, blended with the rasping of her uneven breaths. Sticky warmth, like honey, oozed over her fingers, contrasting sharply against the cold, harsh metal pommel in her hand. Her eyes focused on her forearm, moving up to the dagger, and then to the red coating that flowed down over her wrist. She instinctively pulled back, no more need for force—her prey's death would soon follow due to loss of blood. A hand clawed at her—its blunt, dirty fingernails raking uselessly against the armor of her chest. She watched the struggle of the appendage in apathy, the fits of a dying man so very familiar to her. Unexpectedly, fingers grasped at her collar, and then her chin, tilting her head to find the face of her victim. Shock contorted his facial features, frozen in place by disbelief of her treachery, and she could not suppress the maniacal cackle that bubbled forth from her throat. Her delirious laughter grew, never ceasing, not even as he collapsed, and she stood over his lifeless body.<p>

Her body bolted upright, hands clutching at her chest, as she emitted a strangled mixture of scream and cry. Sweat trickled down her forehead, as she hyperventilated in the cool early morning air. Head between knees, she tried in vain to regulate her breathing, telling herself that it was simply a nightmare. A very realistic nightmare, a guilty voice scolded in the back of her mind, reminding her that the dream had not been conjured from thin air, but a rather plausible outcome. Day's first rays of sunlight were peeking through the vines, barely illuminating her surroundings; and she could make out the sleeping form of Ulfric a few feet away. Lungs finally slowing, waves of shame and disgust overwhelmed her as memories of all that did pass between them ran through her now conscious mind. Tears burned her eyes, threatening to spill over, as the reality of her despicable behavior sank in.

Soft words, like none that she had ever heard upon his lips, crossed the space between them, "What's wrong?"

A bitter chuckle escaped her before she could restrain it, "What's not wrong?"

He allowed that question to go unanswered, and after a few moments she continued, "I don't even know where to begin. You should have struck me down in my sleep, Ulfric. It's what I deserve. Everything you said, every name you called me—I proved it all true with my actions. I am a coward, and on top of that, a traitor."

He shook his head in disagreement, "I don't kill those who suffer from sleep deprivation. You were very clearly both physically and mentally drained. How long had it been since you rested?"

She sighed, unwilling to accept fatigue as an excuse, "Four days."

"I'm impressed that you could even stand on your feet, let alone face combat."

"It doesn't matter—what I did was reprehensible," she hissed.

"What you did is already forgiven…"

Her head snapped in his direction, eyes wide in disbelief of his words. He smiled at her, a small, warm expression, before continuing, "You've saved my life so many times over, Feren, that I've lost count. I figure you're allowed to threaten it at least once."

"I almost killed you."

"It's the almost part that matters. You never would have done so."

Immense despair caused her voice to quiver, "I wish I believed that."

He moved slowly, pausing to pick up her discarded weapon before coming to rest at a seated position beside her. Offering her the hilt of her dagger, he murmured, "You are not the only one with regrets, Feren."

She reached out, taking its weight in her hand, and looked at him while he continued, "I am hardly blameless in all this."

Shoulder to shoulder, they sat in the growing morning light, allowing its peace to wash over them, the calm interrupted only by the waking calls of the nearby larks and sparrows. His proximity reminded her of how their argument ended, his arms bearing proof in the form of scratches. After what she had done to him, he had held and consoled her until exhaustion took her. She felt so small, so worthless; her voice barely steady, heavy with guilt, "I never should have left my post or my home. An apology isn't good enough, but it's all I can offer."

"It's not all you offered. You returned, and when Skyrim…" he paused, Adam's apple dipping as he swallowed, "…when I needed you the most. You were right to accuse me of hiding behind my country. When you left, I was furious that you would put yourself in danger so recklessly and unnecessarily. I just knew that it was simply a matter of time before you'd come crawling back, begging for forgiveness. Ego and pride blinded me; I was convinced that no woman could ever quit me. But then, you never returned, and I was constantly reminded of it—everyone asking questions, even my own sanctum was riddled with difficult, yet precious, memories. I grew to hate you for leaving Skyrim, and even more so for leaving me…"

His voice trailed off, and the look on his face was so pained, that she had to restrain herself from reaching out to comfort him. "But, I couldn't admit that then, not even to myself. It taught me a valuable lesson, Feren, and one that I needed to learn. I used to believe that as a leader, you could never second guess yourself. I was so arrogant, so cocky, so sure that I was always right. Your absence forced me to come face to face with the fact that I had been horribly wrong. Wrong in my assumption that you would come back, and wronger still in the way I had treated you."

She heard the weight of his confession in his words, sympathizing with the pain and heartache in them. She offered, "I'd say we're neck and neck in the treating each other like shit race."

He smirked, and her heart soared at his goofy grin, "Well then, how about we call it a draw and put an end to our little contest. Time and experience have changed us both, and I would like to think that we have learned from our mistakes." He extended his hand toward her, "Friends?"

Relief and joy flooded through her at his words, and her mouth formed into a smile to match his. Maybe now, with years of separation having molded them both, they could bury the hatchet and be friends again. Some of her fondest memories of him, the ones she had cherished most in her darkest moments, were made in the infancy of their companionship, prior to any complicated feelings. Obviously, his relationship with Elisif, even if built upon deceit, and his words now were all proof that he had moved forward. It was time that she did the same. She took his hand, cautious hope and just the tiniest bit of disappointment in her heart as she reaffirmed, "Friends."

A nervous whinny from Banshee interrupted their conversation, and then she heard the distant but distinctive sound of hooves against the ground. To her feet in a flash, she held a hand behind her back, motioning for him to stay seated. Creeping low, she moved toward the edge of the rock, peering over it toward the commotion. Three men on horses galloped away from their location, heading east, the familiar blue armor on their backs a welcome relief to her eyes. She turned to face him while beckoning, "Stormcloaks. A scouting party by the looks of it."

Walking over to the ledge to join her, he asked, "Are you certain?"

She shrugged, "Their armor was not Imperial. The only way to know for sure is to follow them, and we should do so quickly. The marsh won't be the easiest to track in."

A look of uncertainty shadowed his face before he turned back toward camp, "Then let's move."

She quickly got the horse saddled while he gathered up the few items scattered about. He got into the stirrups fairly easily, bum ankle and all. She had waited purposefully for him to do so before she stated, "I need to track and that is easiest to do from the ground."

He looked down at her, an amused scowl across his brow, doing his best at faking an irritated impression. "I can't argue with the logic, but your timing is rather convenient."

She grabbed Banshee's bridle, "You would have insisted upon walking if I mentioned it before you got on the horse. I know it's a change…but I'm trying my best to avoid bickering with you."

He chuckled, the first genuine one she had heard since finding him in Solitude, and she led them forward into the swamp.

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The muddy divots left behind by the horses they were following proved easy enough to track; and it was about midday, according to the sun's climb, when they managed to find the main encampment. She recognized the telltale signs of a nearby human settlement: the smell of horse manure and smoke hung heavy in the air, and the low murmur of conversation was unmistakable. She brought Banshee to a standstill, turning to her companion to speak softly, "Close now…a few hundred yards at the most."

He nodded, and she kept her voice low, "I suggest that I approach alone."

He raised an eyebrow at her statement, "Why?"

"We don't know yet how deep the coup against you runs. I would prefer to find out who is commanding this outfit and their orders, before we walk into some sort of trap. I can come and retrieve you once I know their motives."

He looked at her, a measured deep stare, before responding, "Very well. I hope you're wrong, but I have no desire to end up in a cell again."

He reached behind him, producing the characteristic sword, turning its pommel towards her. "Proof of your status may be necessary." She gave him a nod before taking the sword in her left hand, and grabbing her horse by its muzzle with her right. She whispered in its ear, "I'll be back soon. Keep him safe."

Pushing down the urge to rest her hand on the hilt of her dagger, she marched forward toward the camp through the soggy grass. Two soldiers stood near the entrance, neither of which she recognized. They immediately drew their weapons when she appeared out of the woods, staring her down as she spoke, "At ease, men. I am friend, not foe."

"Prove it stranger."

She swallowed, forcing the visceral panic down deep into her stomach, and turned her back to them, giving full view of the High-King's unmistakable blade. She heard them whisper between each other, the words unintelligible.

"You bear the King's blade, woman."

She spun slowly to face them, hands held still at her sides, "I do. Who commands the force of Stormcloaks gathered here?"

The two soldiers looked at each other, considering her words, before the tallest one responded, "Galmar."

She grinned, hardly believing her fortune, as she offered, "Take me to him."

The soldier nodded, and she followed the man through the camp, taking great care to make no sudden or aggressive moves. They approached a large tent, and she could hear the grumpy curmudgeon bitching a full fifty feet away. He was tearing into someone by the sound of it, and she was grateful that, for the moment at least, it wasn't her on the receiving end. The man raised a hand to still her movement, and she called out at the last second, "Tell him that Stormblade requests an audience."

Nodding, the soldier didn't even make it to the entrance of the tent before the curtain flew back and open. Blue-grey and angry, the eyes of the army's commander stared at her from the entrance, "You have a lot of nerve showing your face here."

It took all her concentration to keep from smirking, "Maybe so. But, you've had at least five seconds to try and kill me, and you haven't, so I assume that I'm forgiven."

He growled, "I can't forgive your crimes. But, I have bigger problems to deal with right now. What are you doing here?"

She leveled a glance at him, "I could ask you the same."

"I should have known that you would be involved in this craziness. The King has been captured, and I don't think I need to explain any more than that."

"There's more to it than that, Galmar. Someone sold him out to the Imperials."

The old man stepped back into his tent, beckoning for her to follow while commanding his subordinates, "Leave us."

Once they were alone, he started, "What are you talking about?"

"I managed to infiltrate one of their bases out to the west, near the border of High Rock." She noticed he was giving her a rather incredulous look, as she continued, "I overheard an interesting conversation between two senior officers where they named a source, someone who was giving them information on the King's whereabouts."

It pained her to withhold the information about Ulfric's subsequent rescue, but she needed to know that she could trust Galmar first. He gave her a long glance, and then sighed deeply, "So much has changed since you left."

"Tell me of it."

"That's the rub. I can't really tell you anything—I've been mostly cut off. I've spent the last six months in the plains of Eastmarch, training this group. I haven't been anywhere near Windhelm to know anything about a rat."

The look of surprise on her face couldn't be hidden, "Why?"

He shrugged, "Like I said, things changed. I longed for the heat of battle, and the capital had very little. Besides, I wasn't exactly a fan of all the political bullshit that came with the new Queen."

She laughed, as he stated, "But, if I had known there was a spy in the court, I never would have left the city. Please tell me you know that."

She nodded, asking, "So what is your army doing here, Galmar?"

"I intend on rescuing Ulfric. Solitude has been overrun by Imperials, and he's being held captive there."

It was always better to be safe than sorry, but she wasn't sure why she had ever doubted Galmar—the old codger just didn't have it in him to be deceptive. The grin she felt spreading on her lips couldn't be any larger, "I hate to disappoint you, old friend, but I fear that I have beat you to the fun again."

"You've got to be kidding me."

She was already stepping out of the tent as he spoke, his words echoing behind her as she laughed loudly. His footsteps were heavy behind her in chase, as she walked towards her destination in the woods.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N** – This chapter is a little longer than the rest, but I'm sure that no one will mind that silly little detail. It got rolling, and once it did, I couldn't stop it.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed thus far! They are the NADH of this story's electron transport chain…without them no ATP to write! (Forgive me, my nutrition class just reared its ugly head—summer classes are fun.)

**Disclaimer** – If I owned Skyrim, Nord men would run around without their shirts. Shirts would be banned by the Empire, instead of Talos. I know it's not practical, but it would be pretty. Alas, Bethesda owns Skyrim, and the men wear shirts.

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><p>Sharp but sweet, the distinct taste of mead was a welcome distraction to her tongue, as she restrained herself from interjecting into the conversation between the two men sitting with her at the table. After all, the longtime comrades hadn't spoken in months, and Ulfric seemed to be doing a more than adequate job of filling Galmar in on the details of his rescue from Solitude. The reunion she had witnessed between them had been heartfelt and moving, but in a way that only the keenest and most knowing of eyes could have caught. The handshake and greeting in the woods had lasted a mere few seconds, but she had seen Ulfric's smile and knew that Galmar's exaggerated claim of exertion hadn't been what caused his voice to crack.<p>

Afterward, the three of them had returned to Galmar's tent, surrounded by the boisterous cheers of the soldiers at the rescue of their King. The men began chants of "On to Solitude" and "Death to Imperials," and, true to form, Ulfric stopped to speak with the group, rallying them for battle. The sight of him in all his charismatic glory sent shivers down her back, a reaction to the energy produced by the unstoppable force that he was. The crowd's calls had died down when they went inside, but there was no doubt that the soldiers gathered here were ready to storm the capital and follow their King into battle—regardless of the outcome.

She looked across the table, taking in the sight of the army commander's amused face. Every so often, Galmar would look to her as if he couldn't believe the words coming from the King's mouth, and she would nod her head in bemused affirmation. The old man's smile continued to grow throughout the story, until she was convinced that his face was about to burst. When Ulfric finished the tale by recounting their arrival in the woods, she was grateful, but not surprised, that he withheld most of the detail about their night in the swamp—some things were best left omitted.

Galmar took a large swig of his drink before speaking, "You two are either the most capable warriors in all of Skyrim, or you both have a horseshoe up your ass the size of Eastmarch."

Unable to restrain herself any longer, she joked, "Can't it be both?"

Laughter from all three of them filled the room, and for the first time, she realized what she had been foolishly missing during her time hunting alone. It may have been more efficient and given her more freedom, but there was no camaraderie. The lack of peer interaction had made her inhumanly cold and bitter, and more than appreciative of this simple gesture of friendship.

Galmar managed to speak, "I'm just relieved that the two of you made it out. But, how did this all happen? You mentioned a snitch, Feren, but do you know who it is?"

"I do," she glanced at Ulfric, catching his nod in her direction before continuing, "I overheard Elisif's name."

It was a credit to the old man's reflexes that his jaw hung open for only a few seconds before being replaced with an icy glare of hatred. "That underhanded…"

Ulfric's raised voice interrupted him, "That's enough, Galmar. I know what you are thinking, but I will hear my wife's side of the story before I condemn her. I will not hang her based solely on the whispered words of a few Imperials. She was captured at the same time as I, and as far as I know, taken into custody as well."

"Then where is she now?"

"No idea…but I can say for certain that she wasn't in any cell in Castle Dour," her accusatory sneer was bold and unmistakable.

"That doesn't mean that she wasn't being held prisoner somewhere else," Ulfric grumbled.

Her blood burned at the continued excuses for his wife's involvement in the attempt on his life, but she kept her temper in check. He continued, "Even if Elisif had a part in this, she didn't act alone. My captors were under orders from someone to keep me alive."

She nodded, having heard that much herself before attacking several of the Imperials in the castle during his rescue. "At least that part of their actions made sense—their plan was to hang you, and they couldn't kill you twice. What I don't understand is what they thought to gain by waiting…I honestly didn't expect to find you alive."

Galmar's question interrupted her morose thoughts, "Do you think anyone else is involved?"

Ulfric hesitated for a moment, leaning back in his chair and shifting in the seat, bringing his arms forward onto the table before he spoke, "Vendar. I am by no means certain, but…"

Galmar simply nodded, but the name didn't mean anything to her. "Who?"

"My steward. He took over about a year ago, after Jorleif disappeared," he shook his head sadly.

"What do you mean disappeared?"

"A suicide letter was discovered in Jorleif's quarters, but his body was never found. I had the guard captain investigate the matter personally; I couldn't believe that he would kill himself. But, there was no sign of foul play, no evidence that pointed to any another possibility. Eventually, Elisif suggested Vendar as his replacement. He had served the court in Solitude, and at the time, seemed a reasonable choice."

Another reason for the bitch to die, she thought to herself. She had never been a friend to Jorleif, but the man was a faithful servant to his Jarl, and had deserved a better fate.

"I should have seen it then. Something about the entire situation, and Vendar in particular, seemed off, but I couldn't pin down exactly what. At one point, I even suspected that he might be sleeping with her."

Somehow, she managed to swallow her sip of mead before choking on it. In Ulfric's mind, the assumption might have been a logical one, but the thought of Elisif committing adultery was almost unthinkable to her. The woman was a complete and total stick-in-the-mud; not the kind that she would expect to carry on an affair. A small chortle managed to sneak out, and she quickly turned it into a pseudo-cough. Luckily for her, Galmar responded, "Things are always clearer in hindsight. Now, the question is what to do and when to do it."

She felt the stare from Ulfric's direction, and she turned her head to meet it. He innocently asked, "What say you, Feren?"

The use of her given name startled her—he had never spoken it before in front of others. In her periphery, she saw Galmar's eyes widen and shift back and forth between herself and Ulfric. The man was old, but he wasn't senile, and she was certain that he had not only heard it, but recognized that it was somehow significant. She spoke, stumbling over her words slightly, "If you intend on striking Solitude, then I would do it quickly. Imperial reinforcements were on the way days ago, and I am sure that they have made it there by now."

The commander smirked, "Well then, I am glad that I sent word to Whiterun and Markarth days ago, asking for help. Our numbers should double by the morning."

"Good, it is settled, then. Tomorrow we fight for Solitude," Ulfric looked smug, but she wasn't sure if it was because of his friend's strategic foresight or her reaction to his use of her name.

Galmar voiced a question that she had in her head, but was afraid to ask. "What if we find Elisif there?"

The look of unease on Ulfric's face did not escape her, although he was rather quick to mask it. "She is to be taken into custody alive."

Keeping her face blank, she concentrated her stare on the mug in her hand, waiting to hear Galmar's response. He stood up from the table and made his way toward the door, "I'll go inform the men that we march in the morning."

They sat in silence for a few moments after Galmar exited—she didn't quite trust her mouth after hearing his plans for Elisif. Some small, logical part of her accepted the fact that he wanted to give his wife a chance, but that was overshadowed by the emotional part of her that hated the woman for being a traitor, and his lover. She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she almost didn't hear him, "Will you be joining us tomorrow?"

She paused before responding, caught off-guard by the question, "It's the least I can do, after everything that has happened between us. I convinced you to leave Solitude, and I will help you reclaim it."

He nodded, "I'm relieved that you will. I need your skill with a blade, and there is no other that I trust as much. I was afraid that I might have pushed my luck too far by angering you with my decision on Elisif."

She opted not to address his words on the queen, and instead, changed the subject to one that was more to her liking. He had piqued her curiosity, and she wanted an answer. "Why did you use my name in front of Galmar?"

He sighed, his voice taking on a somber note, "I've learned from one of the many mistakes I have made. You taught me that I can't treat a person one way in public, and a different way in private."

The man was just full of surprises—even after all this time, he could still find a way to leave her speechless. She just sat there absorbing his words, as he continued, "I know that our relationship is not what it once was, Feren, but you're still just as precious to me, and this time, everyone will know that. There will be no secrets, no shame, no holding back—no one will doubt that you are my friend."

She didn't have a way to express the gamut of emotions that she felt. Every time she thought to open her mouth and speak, she realized the words were insufficient. A simple response would have to suffice, "Thank you, Ulfric."

He nodded, and she stood up to leave the tent. His words had her brain and heart somersaulting in confusion, and she needed to gather herself, away from him. She turned to him before leaving, "Promise me you'll rest…especially that ankle. I'm going to go check on Banshee."

He laughed, "You know, I've had healers fuss at me less over more serious injuries."

"I could tell Galmar about it. You could have him nursing your wounds instead."

The sour look on his face was too much for her; she couldn't contain the grin that spread across her lips. He groaned, "Forget that I said anything. Fuss all you want."

She was still smiling as she left the tent, walking through the camp toward the horses.

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The cool evening air did little to muffle the energetic buzz that hummed through the camp, as all around her people were doing whatever they could to prepare for the upcoming battle. Finished with scrutinizing what felt like the thousandth piece of armor, she set it down in a pile next to the rest, and stood up to stretch her achy limbs. After checking on her horse, she had spent the better part of the afternoon contributing in her own meager way—inspecting gear, inventorying supplies—whatever odd jobs Galmar had assigned her. The commander needed help getting everything in order, and she had thought that, maybe, it could be a start towards making amends with him.

The chore now complete, she contemplated finding her taskmaster, when he showed up on his own, stepping inside the supply tent. "How goes it?"

"I truly forgot how much fun it is to prepare an army for battle," her voice full of sarcasm, as she walked toward him.

He laughed, "You offered."

"I did. Remind me next time, will you?"

He clapped a hand on her shoulder, patting her roughly, while ushering her out of the supply tent. "It's a deal. Now, go get some rest, we have hell to raise tomorrow."

"No need to tell me twice!" she called out behind her, as she walked away from the structure. Truth be told, she was still way too awake to sleep, but glad to be done with checking armor. It went against the nature of every fiber in her body to be sedentary for long periods of time, and she wasn't sure how anyone managed to do so. It felt good to get the blood flowing through her veins, and she decided that maybe a little moonlit horse ride would calm her restless nerves.

Approaching the stable area, she could see Banshee's twitching ears honing in on her nearing footfalls. The horse was tethered to several others, and she moved towards them slowly, careful not to startle them. Once freed, she walked her out away from her stable mates, and gave her a nice long neck stroke, "How about a run before bed girl?"

Banshee nudged her shoulder with her muzzle, which she had learned long ago meant "get on" in horse speak. She chuckled and went over to retrieve her saddle, heaving it as gently as possible onto the beast's back. Absorbed in the task and confounded momentarily by wayward buckles and straps, she barely heard the husky, but familiar voice, "It is you…"

She turned away from the saddle, finding the shadowy figure of a man behind her. As Masser's light illuminated his form, she recognized the broad shoulders and the blond braid that she had teasingly tucked a daisy into at one drunken point. Mirth filled her voice, echoing in the quiet night, "Ralof!"

His stare never wavered as he closed the distance between them, not speaking, just his eyes locked upon her face. The intensity of his gaze made her anxious, her fingers twitching nervously at her sides.

"I can hardly believe it," he sounded awestruck, like someone who was witnessing a Talos-granted miracle. He paused, regaining a bit of his composure, "I thought for sure that the men were full of shit. What are you doing here?"

The lack of anger in his voice was surprising to her; he sounded more curious than anything else. "I'm here to help take back Solitude."

He smirked slightly, "The mighty Stormblade has returned—those poor sots don't stand a chance tomorrow. I'm glad that I was in Whiterun when they called for reinforcements; I wouldn't have wanted to miss this for the world."

They shared a laugh, and he bombarded her with questions about the time that had passed since they had last seen each other. He never pressed her for details when she was evasive, simply accepting her half-answers at face value and then moving on to a different subject. The conversation flowed easily between them, just like it always had, and she found herself enjoying his company immensely.

"How long will you be staying?" he asked after a lull in their chat, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably.

She shrugged, "I don't know. Until I am no longer needed, I guess."

"Needed by whom? If you're asking me, I'd have you stay for good."

Swallowing, she tried to sidestep the unspoken implications of his statement, "I'll take that as a compliment to my battle prowess, Captain."

"The cause could always use another good warrior…" his baritone curled around the words devilishly, "…but I wasn't speaking as a Stormcloak officer."

Deflecting again, she joked, "Only a _good_ warrior? And here I thought I was gaining a reputation."

He chuckled, "I stand corrected—you are the invincible Stormblade, after all. Come back from the dead, if you believe the mead-induced rumors around here."

The second mention of her Stormcloak title bothered her, and it finally dawned on her why. "My friends call me Feren."

"Maybe I'm not your friend," he teased.

She raised an eyebrow at him, "No?"

A step closer he came—a direct invasion of her personal space. He sighed, "Invincible and impenetrable, apparently. I thought I made my intentions clear to you before, but obviously not."

Now, she was confused, "What do you mean?"

"Our time together in Solitude."

She nodded slightly, finally comprehending what he might be talking about. After defeating the Imperials, they had celebrated the hard-earned victory by spending several days together in the city. Nothing had happened between them except drinking, singing, and dancing; and she had thought at the time that it was just two friends unwinding after a grueling battle. Clearly, she had misjudged his assessment of the situation.

"I didn't realize…" she began.

He nodded, "I understand that. But, I don't want to be your friend—not until I know that you've had a chance to think about the other possibilities."

For a second time in the same day, she was dumbfounded for words because of a man. She was struggling with what to say, when she felt one hand of his on her shoulder, and the other tilting her chin up to his face. "Just think about it, Feren—that is all I ask. When you left, I didn't think I'd ever get another opportunity to be bolder, to tell you…"

His voice trailed off as he closed his eyelids, and both of his hands moved down her arms, desperately grabbing her fingers in his. When he reopened his eyes to look at her, the passion in them and the growl in his voice made goosebumps stand on her flesh, "…to tell you just how badly I want you. I know that this isn't exactly the best time, but I learned what true regret was when you disappeared. I won't experience it again."

His impossible admission had her stomach tied in knots, and she tried to keep that fact unknown to her friend by using playful words, smiling at him sweetly, "I will, but only because you called me Feren."

"It's a beautiful name for a beautiful woman."

Her cheeks flushed with heat, and she took a step back, giving them both some space. Her mind was in a complete daze from the whirlwind of emotions she had felt that day. Now was not the time to get involved with him, not on the eve of battle and not with so many conflicted feelings—he deserved better than that.

Unconcerned with her retreat, Ralof released their connection, and smiled at her as he spoke, "We should both get some rest. Sleep well, Feren."

He moved, dipping his head, and the wiry whiskers of his beard brushed briefly against her chin as his lips pressed against her cheek tenderly. As quickly as he had kissed her, he was turning on his heel, leaving the stable area. Hand held at the side of her face, she watched him walk away, with her bewildered heart pounding in her ears.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N** – Once again, I am in absolute awe of my reviewers. I have never received such an abundance of lengthy critique, and I wanted to take a moment to thank each and every person who has reviewed. It means a lot to me when I receive reviews from long-standing authors on this site, who have posted their own fantastic works of art. There is no praise so sweet as that of your peers.

**Disclaimer**– I do not own Skyrim or any of its characters.

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><p>Thrust, parry, spin, stab—repetition often dulled the senses of most, but she thrived in its monotonous clutches. Few things offered a thrill similar to the simple, feral beauty of combat; and experiencing it time and time again was a blessing from Talos himself. Muscle and bone shifted in rhythm with ebony and steel, a deadly whirl of fierce movements and strategic positioning. The narrow hallway provided a cramped battlefield on which she thrived; close quarters and little reaction time a challenge that she welcomed with arms open and blades at the ready. Drawn to the calamity and chaos, her place was always on the front line, and this battle was no different. Adrenaline and anticipation fueled her ever onward, driving the Imperials from the ill-gotten territory into flight or death. During the initial onslaught, the army had splintered, each battalion following its commanding officer into the fray. Unyielding and focused, her group had marched directly for Castle Dour, towards whomever and whatever awaited them there.<p>

Her current opponent, a general by the looks of his armor, swung at her in haste, and she sidestepped his sword, pushing her dagger into the man's exposed flank. He stumbled and fell, grasping feebly at the bleeding wound her weapon left in its wake. The sound of clamoring footsteps filled her ears as most of his subordinates ran in panic, having seen their leader succumb to the fight. Then, a thunderous roar, too close for comfort, "Die you Stormcloak bitch!"

Out of the corner of her right eye, she saw the gleam of metal flash in the flickering torchlight that bathed the hallway. Throwing herself down and to the left, the whoosh of air from the vengeful enemy's blade fanned the hairs of her neck into standing. Rolling once, barely stopping before crashing into the wall—she heard the growl of a charge, and springing to her feet, she witnessed Ralof's bulging arms as they swung his warhammer down into her attacker's skull.

"I owe you one," she managed, winded from the reminder of her mortality.

Her savior smirked for just a second, "You actually owe me twenty-three…I've kept count since Helgen."

She grinned at her dear friend; leave it to him to find a way to make her smile after a near-death experience. An appropriately appreciative, but still smart-aleck response was forming in her mind, when she was interrupted by a gruff, almost irritated voice from behind her, "Captain…"

Turning her head, her eyes found Ulfric standing beside her, axe drawn and at the ready. "Take your men to secure the entrance and perimeter. I want no interruptions and no surprises."

He nodded, "Yes, sir."

Before turning to leave, Ralof gave her a wink, and she had to make a great effort to keep herself from laughing at his charmingly silly behavior. Instead, she let her broad smile communicate her farewell, and she knew, without question, that she would see him again after the battle. He had implied as much during their last chat together, while practically begging her to consider him as something more than a friend. Honestly, that possibility had never entered her mind before, but now, she couldn't get it out of head; and she had no idea what she was going to do.

A tiny, contemptuous noise, akin to a snort, but more through the mouth, left Ulfric, and she raised an eyebrow at him as they watched the Captain gather his troops and exit the area. She opted to let it pass without question, assuming, hopefully, that it had more to do with physical exertion than anything else. The Imperials had only been in control of the city for a few days, but their numbers were impressive and their soldiers staunch. It had taken a great collective effort to get this far, and the wave of battle was cresting in their favor; but it was far from over. Done with handing out orders, Galmar approached, gesturing towards the barred double door in front of them. His voice carried in the small space, "Are we ready?"

She nodded, stepping forward, putting herself between the King and whatever lay in wait for them on the other side. She pushed against the door, its weight unmoving, and then opted for another technique, lifting her foot to break the jamb. On her second attempt at kicking it, Galmar grabbed her shoulder, "My turn, lightweight."

Her chuckle was joined by Ulfric's laugh and the groan of wood giving way under Galmar's boot. Pushing what remained of the door open, she promptly surveyed the meeting room, finding nothing but furniture and books. The pitter-patter of footfalls in retreat shattered the silence, and she called out, as she broke into a sprint, "The stairs!"

Her legs carried her up the flight two steps at a time, coming to rest at a landing, as vague forms fled in two directions. A door slammed to her right, and another sat wide open at the end of the hall to the left, the war-torn remains of the city visible through it. Her instincts carried her to the right, desperation and fear abundantly clear in the actions of the short-sighted enemy. That path led to a dead end—a rather large bedroom, if she recalled correctly; and whoever took that route was trapped. Shouting from Galmar filled the stairwell behind her, barking out commands to some of the men to give chase in the other direction.

She turned the knob slowly, peeking into the room, searching most assuredly for the fear-paralyzed face of some lackey. Instead, her eyes came upon an uncannily familiar expression—loathing, disgust and anger—worn upon the very features of the Queen of Skyrim herself. Moving to her left, she didn't lower her weapon, as the supposedly prim-and-proper Queen made no move to put down her blade either.

Ulfric's words interrupted her predatory stalk, "Elisif."

Stilling, she would wait for his command, ignoring her most base instinct—the urge to attack. The Queen sneered at him openly, "Hello, husband."

"Stand down."

She laughed at him, a frightening sound between a scream and a roar, "I think not. I'm all too aware of my precarious position."

Desperation, borne out of a lack of control, quickened his tone, "It doesn't need to be this way. Surrender and I will spare your life."

The twisted grin she wore only faltered a bit, "For what? So that I can spend the rest of my days in jail? I've been your prisoner our entire marriage, Ulfric, but I won't allow you to confine me to a cell now. I had hoped to rid myself and Skyrim of your manipulative and narcissistic ways, but I failed. I would rather die than be near you any longer."

Perplexed, she could scarcely reconcile the woman in front of her with the Elisif she had known years ago. The defiant spitfire standing in front of her looked the same, but simply couldn't be Elisif—this person actually had a spine. Long gone was the sickly sweet tone that she remembered from her days as a resident of Solitude, replaced by an angry screech that would rival a Haagraven's. Her thoughts were interrupted by Galmar moving forward, clearly agitated, "That can be arranged, you lecherous…"

Ulfric's outstretched arm held back his friend, "Be still, Galmar. This is between me and my wife."

The old man relaxed his body posture slightly, but the look of hatred on his face went unchanged. The King spoke, "Than you admit to your treason."

The Queen lifted her chin proudly, smiling from ear to ear, "I do, and I would do it again given the chance. You took from Skyrim a fair and just ruler, and from me, that which I held most dear. As if that weren't enough, you drove this country into civil war—brother fought brother while you profited from your throne in Eastmarch. Your ouster of the Empire did nothing but increase Skyrim's enemies tenfold. When Cyrodiil offered me the opportunity and the means to usurp you, I couldn't refuse."

The conviction in Elisif's voice couldn't be dismissed—the woman clearly believed Ulfric's actions justified her own. She hated to admit it, but she found herself sympathizing with the Queen; she knew all too well how the need for retribution could blind a person to everything else in existence.

"There are more reasons, but the whys no longer matter," she continued, as her face fell, "Both Skyrim and I have lost everything now—any chance at peace, at happiness. It ends here…"

Shoulders back, the slight woman took a step forward, lifting her sword at her husband, as her arm shook in defiance and exhaustion, "You are not fit to rule Skyrim. I challenge you for its throne, Ulfric."

He laughed at her, his ego on full display, "Ludicrous…you are being absolutely absurd."

Elisif shook her head, "No…I am taking the only option I have left."

"I will not fight a woman…let alone my own wife."

Surprisingly, she felt her anger rise at his blatant dismissal of Elisif's confrontation. Whether or not he agreed, she was invoking her right as a citizen, just as Ulfric himself had done against Torygg. The mention of her gender as a reason to reject her request served to make him look both small and pathetic. At best, he was being a hypocritical bigot; at worst, he was disrespecting one of the most revered of Skyrim's traditions.

"Then you forfeit," the Queen smirked.

He stepped towards her, growling, "I do not."

Her cackle sounded throughout the room, echoing off the walls, "Come now, husband," her tone syrupy fake over the last word, "You claim such a great respect for the old ways, and yet, here you stand in defiance of them. You must choose—either accept my challenge and fight me, or decline and I take the throne. I know that your bloated sense of self-worth will not allow you to concede, and I swear, on every ounce of Nord blood in my veins, that you will not best me easily or underhandedly. I know your games, Ulfric, and I have seen their outcomes."

"Do not force my hand, Elisif."

She shook her head in disagreement, "You have backed yourself into a corner this time. No matter the outcome of this duel, you will be humiliated and your ability to rule will be questioned. It is the best parting gift that I can give to Skyrim."

Movement in the hallway behind them halted the conversation, and she turned to see Ralof shoving a bound man forward through the door. Dark brown hair and green eyes that looked terrified scanned the room, glancing at everyone but settling on Elisif. The stranger's earthy complexion, a hallmark of her kind, led her to assume that he was at least of mixed blood, since he appeared to be lacking other Mer traits. Other than that, she didn't recognize anything special about him.

Ralof spoke, "We found this one skulking about, trying to find a way inside."

Elisif's stance didn't falter in the slightest at the interruption, but her eyes betrayed her as she took in the face of the prisoner, enlarging in shock and softening at the same time. The Queen whispered sadly, "Vendar…you fool. I told you to run."

"And I told you that I would never leave you," the man's voice was defiant and full of devotion.

Ulfric chuckled, a sadistic note in its cadence, "It seems you have a rather faithful servant, Elisif. I'm sure that bedding him helped to secure his loyalty."

Vendar struggled in his bindings, trying to break free, and when he was unsuccessful, opted to spit at Ulfric, barely missing him. He snarled, "I would follow her to the very ends of Tamriel, even if she never touched me, pig. How many of your ilk would do the same for you?"

"You would do well to watch your mouth, traitor," Ulfric commanded, raising his axe as he approached the bound man, "Lest I strike you down where you stand."

"No! Ulfric please, no!" Elisif wailed, lowering her sword and stepping towards the King.

The look of smug satisfaction on his face made her stomach churn uncomfortably. She recognized it well—the devious expression that he wore when he took the killing blow, be it with axe or word. "Why? You both deserve death for your crimes, but unlike you, he is no kin to me."

Elisif looked so defeated that her heart ached painfully for her supposed enemy, "I will surrender to you, if you agree to spare him."

Ulfric studied his wife's face, and for just a second, she witnessed the flash of compassion written on his features. He spoke, "And you would withdraw your challenge?"

The broken Queen nodded her head at Ulfric, but her eyes were fixed upon Vendar, "I would give anything for his life."

The words from Elisif's lips sounded like an oath, an absolute truth, and they resonated throughout the room. The intimacy, the longing, the unadulterated love in her statement stirred and agitated something within her, and she shifted on her feet, feeling uncomfortable and unworthy in the presence of such an intense emotion.

"Then you both will be placed under arrest, until I decide your sentence," he sighed, sounding beaten even though he had gotten his way.

As Galmar escorted the two of them from the room, the Queen's eyes remained only on her lover, and she could see the bold and obvious passion written on her face. Great unease rippled through her at the whole situation, and she felt a strange, but growing desire to speak with the Queen—one on one, woman to woman. There were surely two sides to every tale, and while she disliked Elisif immensely, she couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that part of the story had been omitted by the storyteller himself. There was only one way to know for sure—she would wait for things to settle down, and then she would speak with Ulfric's wife…alone.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N** – Now, this has to have been my most challenging, and yet most fun-to-write chapter to date. It took a little longer than expected, and both work and school managed to get in the way a bit as well, so I apologize for the slightly longer period between chapters. The good news is that it shouldn't happen again too often because (and here's the bad news) there should only be three more chapters.

**Disclaimer** – I still don't own Skyrim.

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><p>A patchwork mesh of vertical and horizontal shadows fell across the floor of the cell, leading her eyes along the ground, as they came to rest at a pair of dainty feet. The renegade Queen's eyes were closed, head lolled back against the cell wall, sitting in an awkward position that looked rather uncomfortable. Seemingly defeated, the woman's hands were bound behind her back unceremoniously, and she shook her head at Galmar's obvious overkill. She quickly recognized the old man's handiwork—he was under direct orders to imprison Elisif, but that didn't preclude him from making her confinement as miserable as possible. It seemed grossly unnecessary to bind the Queen—she highly doubted the woman even had a clue what a lockpick looked like, let alone how to use one. The lifelong politician would probably mistake it for some sort of hair adornment. That thought mildly amused her as she spoke, "Leaning forward will ease some of your discomfort…"<p>

It was very impressive that, even restrained, Elisif managed to retain most of her haughty arrogance. The prisoner glowered at her, meeting her gaze, and then defiantly turned her head in the opposite direction without making a sound. Undeterred by the frosty response, she stuck to her predetermined plan of action. Summoning her most commanding voice, she ordered the guard on duty, "Leave us."

The soldier started to argue, "But, Stormblade, I was given strict orders…"

She cut him off, "You have new orders, guardsman. Now go."

The man hesitated for a moment, before nodding and leaving the rotunda. Once she heard his trailing footsteps and the closing slam of the door, she moved across the room to the gate. Within seconds, she had jimmied the familiar lock open, and she glanced at the prisoner to see her eyes widening in what looked like a combination of fear and surprise. She slipped inside the cell, shutting them in behind her, while relocking the mechanism—she still didn't believe that Elisif could best her, but saw no reason to underestimate her foe either. She smirked, enjoying the look of bewilderment on the royal's face, "It's impolite to speak to someone through bars."

Elisif's eyes narrowed, trying to regain some of her composure, "I have nothing to say to a woman who casts her lot in with Ulfric Stormcloak."

She couldn't restrain herself from laughing. "Bold words, especially since they come from the woman who married him."

"A decision borne out of necessity—the plan to overthrow him wouldn't have worked any other way. What excuse have you?"

She sighed loudly, tempted to throttle the woman for her insolent tongue. Inhaling deeply through her building irritation, her hands grabbed the brat's shoulders, pulling her forward to untie the knots of her bindings. She took a small delight in the fact that Elisif's eyes bulged in apprehension as she spoke, "My reasons are my own."

The Queen stared at her openly, a look of uncertainty and confusion written on her features, as she absorbed and analyzed the act of simple compassion. After a moment of rubbing her wrists, the woman managed, "A shame, really…and an obvious waste of potential. Your reputation precedes you; I have heard stories of your conquests, and not just those from the Battle of Solitude. You could have done much better than the present company you keep."

"I could say the same to you, considering that your Imperial friends scurried off, leaving you high and dry with all of the blame."

Elisif grinned, her teeth showing just slightly, "It is refreshing to speak with another opinionated woman, no matter how short-sighted and erroneous they might be."

"At least we can agree on that…" she quipped, smirking back, as she sat on the ground across from the Queen.

A few moments of uneasy silence passed, before Elisif spoke sarcastically, "But, you're not here for a social visit…"

"No. I came to ask you a few questions about the Imperials."

"And you assume that I will answer them…"

Shrugging, she responded, "No, actually. But I did assume that you would prefer my interrogation techniques over Galmar's."

"So, you play the sympathetic ear while he's the heavy—a tried and true method. Alone, that bloated fool wouldn't get a shred of information from me."

"There is no acting on my part, Elisif. Vengeance is an old, dear friend of mine, and I know very well what it can drive a person to attempt. But, I am not sympathetic. Just because I understand the reasons behind what you did does not mean that I would ever follow suit, or pity you for your foolish choices. What you did is unforgivable in my eyes, but I'm not the one who gets to decide your fate."

The woman was quiet for a while, before finally murmuring, "How very odd it is to hear my name without a title before it."

She shrugged, "Titles matter not behind cell bars."

Elisif nodded, looking sad as she spoke, "Ask your questions, Stormblade."

"Let's go back to the beginning then…"

Conducting her supposed interrogation, she started asking slow, methodical questions on the details of the coup against the King. While it was true that she wanted to find out what the Empire had been up to, she was even more curious about Elisif herself and her undeniable transformation, and she hoped that their discussion would offer some insight into both subjects. The young Queen spun a tale of desperation on the part of Cyrodiil, the country's agents contacting her not long into Ulfric's reign. "At first, I was unable to assist them—after the war and the Moot, I was Jarl of Solitude in name only, a figure head, powerless and forced to grovel at the High-King's feet just to cling to my title. Eventually, that changed…"

Bile crept up the back of her throat, her stomach churning at the premonition of the Queen's imminent words. Her feet shifted unconsciously, her anxiety rising at what she knew was coming; and yet, she somehow managed to focus on the moving lips of Elisif, "Sometime in the month of First Seed, Ulfric came to me, asking for my hand in marriage. While it completely blindsided and repulsed me, I knew that it was my only opportunity. So I took it…"

Her feeble mental preparation failed to soften the blow that the mention of the month dealt her, striking like a fist in the gut. Her mind drifted, replaying the contents of the letter where he had unabashedly begged for her, its date a mere few weeks before his proposal to Elisif. Disgust and shame consumed her completely, as she realized that her stubbornness contributed greatly to all this heart-wrenching mess. Luckily, Elisif didn't seem to notice her discomfort, or at least didn't let on that she did. Taking a deep breath, she managed, "It was a marriage of convenience then?"

The Queen nodded, "It was, at least for me. I know not what his motives were, and they mattered not to me in the slightest."

She kept the conversation flowing, hoping that the pace would keep Elisif's attention, "Do you think the Empire will attempt to dethrone Ulfric again?"

Elisif took a moment, clearly contemplating the matter, before she responded, "It is not a question of if, but when. Their future challenge will probably be a more direct assault, and under the guise of war, since the coup failed. I don't believe they will use any more covert operations or secretive methods."

"What happened to Jorlief?"

"Ulfric's steward? As far as I am aware, he disappeared."

She raised an eyebrow at the Queen as she spoke, "Really?"

"Well…it is easier to do with an obscene amount of gold. He's probably blown through most of it by now, carelessly spending it all on bar wenches and prostitutes across Tamriel. Honestly, I did Ulfric a favor by paying the lout to leave."

She nodded, managing to keep her face blank. She was glad to hear that Jorlief wasn't dead, but furious, and mostly unsurprised, that he had caved into bribery so easily. He had never struck her as a dependable ally. "Who would have ruled Skyrim if you were successful?"

"The Emperor himself sent a letter through one of the agents, promising me control of Skyrim in exchange for my assistance. Not that I was naive enough to accept it as complete truth—the Empire never allows absolute autonomy—but I believe I would have had some authority."

"Was that one of your terms to Cyrodiil? That you were to be made High-Queen?"

Elisif sighed, sadness evident in the tone of her heavy breath, "It was one of them…"

"What else?"

"Vendar was to stay in Solitude."

Her eyebrow went up uncontrollably as Elisif explained, "I feared that they would send him away once we were successful in our mission. He was an agent of the Empire after all, and I had no direct control over his assignments."

Opting to bait Elisif, she laid her trap ever so carefully, "You didn't want to lose your connection to Cyrodiil…"

Elisif looked rather disgusted, and then managed to level a gaze at her that would make most cower, "Do not make the mistake of belittling my feelings for Vendar while playing your stupid word games. He is the only reason I still retain some sanity. Even as I sit here rotting in this cage, I do not regret my actions, because then, I would not have met him. He has been my strength whenever I was frail and wavering, and my perseverance when I was about to stumble. We both tried, and failed, to keep our emotions at bay; what I feel for him is as natural as the blood moving through my veins. It is a terrible weakness on my part, but it's not one I care to cure."

"You are foolish to admit such things."

"If I could, I would stand on the turrets of the Blue Palace and yell at the top of my lungs—I care not what anyone in all of Tamriel thinks of my feelings for Vendar."

"Is that so? Do you think that your subjects would have welcomed that news once they saw the skin of your beloved?"

"It would not have mattered either way. He is, and will be as long as I breathe, a part of me. If they could not accept him, then Skyrim would have had to find itself a new queen."

She met Elisif's eyes, leaning forward in anticipation and disbelief, "Then you meant the words you said—that you would give up everything for him?"

The Queen's voice boomed in its ferocity, "Yes."

Unspoken thoughts, things whispered in impossible fantasies that she had long buried, sprang from her lips without hesitation, "Your wealth, your country, your entire existence—you would trade them for him?"

"Without Vendar, all of that means absolutely nothing. What good is money, or a home, if you have no one to share it with?"

The crushing thud of her heart in her chest threatened to give away her real motive for the turn of the conversation. Both of them sat in silence, and her thoughts wandered to her own "Elisif," and how she would never hear those words from his lips. She whispered involuntarily, without thought, "Incredible…"

Elisif scowled, "I know that to most, it is difficult to fathom such a thing. A Nord never walks away from their duty. But if my hand is forced, and I have to make a choice, it's going to be him every time."

The Queen had misunderstood her comment, interpreting it as contempt of her irresponsibility, but in reality, she was just in amazement of her passion, and it unknowingly proved her point even more. Jealousy, guilt, and awe rocked her to the very core of her soul—here sat a Nord who was willing to give up everything to be with a Mer, and she found herself profoundly touched by the feelings the woman had for Vendar. On one hand, she despised Elisif for her treachery, but on the other, she admired her tenacity and dedication.

She continued, "Now, I have failed in the one task that I could not, and when I realized my error, I tried to save his life. I ordered him to flee when we saw the Stormcloak army gaining ground, and he defied me by returning. His disobedience and obstinance infuriates me, and yet I cherish him all the more for it."

Her voice softened, becoming wistful, "Vendar and I could have been happy, if I had just succeeded."

The melancholy in Elisif's tone shook her, summoning memories of all the pain and anguish she had felt after leaving Windhelm. Despair layered with hopelessness and self-loathing, so similar to her own as she had lamented the loss of Ulfric—that same flat dejection is what echoed through the Queen's tone now. But, unlike her situation, Elisif realized what she had, and was willing to walk away from it all in order to have Vendar. For that clarity of heart, she would give Elisif and Vendar the gift that she and Ulfric would never receive—a second chance. Her voice trembled slightly as she spoke, "There is still hope for that…"

Elisif looked at her like she had lost her mind, as she asked, "What are you talking about?"

"I can offer you a life with Vendar…but you will leave Skyrim and never return. You will give up any claim you have to your husband, to the throne, and to the country. Both you and Vendar will cut any and all ties to the Empire." Guilt and shame filled her as she offered the enemy a way out, and she said a silent prayer to the gods, pleading that Ulfric would one day understand her decision.

The Queen started to speak, and she cut her off, "I will take you both to the border near Morrowind, and give you enough gold to start anew. But, Elisif the Fair dies here, in this cell. This you must swear to me."

Elisif looked absolutely floored, but somehow managed to murmur, "Why? Why would you do this for us?"

She had come here half-hoping to catch Elisif in a lie, desperate to find that her words of devotion were false. Instead, the Queen had proved her wrong, and in doing so, awakened within her great compassion and the undeniable urge to make things right. She considered lying, but knew that only the truth would be believable. "I am envious of Vendar's position…that he would mean everything to one with so much power."

The dawning look of realization on the Queen's face left little doubt as to whether she understood. Elisif's voice was barely a whisper, "There was always a shadow over him; any man who proposes a loveless union is clearly troubled. But, at the time, he provided me something I needed, and I didn't care to try to understand his motives. I had never kept my hatred of him secret, and so I thought that made me an unlikely candidate, when in reality, it made me the ideal one. But, even in my loathing of him, I would have bedded him to beguile him—men are so much more pliable when they are under your spell—but he wouldn't…he never wanted me. He never touched me. Don't doubt what you meant to him."

The Queen's admission of celibacy, in direct contrast to Ulfric's earlier words, freed her from any guilt or remorse that she had felt at helping her to escape. Her anger ran deep, growing uncontrollably, as she could hear his voice in her mind, boasting about compatibility and accommodations. Ulfric owed her an explanation, and she would collect, while she offered her own for helping Elisif. Tit for tat, she thought as she smirked, "Do you accept my offer?"

Elisif nodded, words escaping her, and she moved across the cell to lean down, face to face with the Queen, "Understand that my aid is for this one time only—an exception. Do not take it as an act of weakness or acceptance of your actions. If I ever find out that you have violated our agreement, and have placed so much as a toe onto Skyrim's soil, I will hunt you down. If you ever even think to go after Ulfric again, I will not rest until I have killed you and your lover myself."

Elisif's lip trembled just slightly before she spoke, "You have my word. I hate the man for all that he has done to me and this country, but I will let that go for Vendar."

"Then, let's talk escape strategy…"


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N** – Wowsers. First, I would like to thank everyone who has reviewed and/or alerted this story. What started out as short story has turned into a 14 chapter tale, and I had no idea that was going to occur. That evolution wouldn't have happened if not for the reviewers who encouraged me to continue the story. It saddens me a bit to think that this is almost over, but I will say that I am motivated to give the characters their well-deserved ends.

P.S. – There have been reviews asking if I've ever considered writing my own material, and the answer is yes, but I always decide against it because of the time it takes to do so. If it were my sole task and source of income, I could gladly do it. But, life doesn't work that way, and unfortunately, I have school and a full-time job that takes my time.

**Disclaimer** – I do not own Skyrim or its characters. Maybe if I did, I could have arranged for Vladimir Kulich to record my voice mail greeting while he was reading his lines for the game. Vladimir: "Why is this line in the script?" Me: "It's...uh...for the temple of cellular quest."

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><p>Twilight's dying rays cast a faint light over the soon-to-be slumbering city—the long, familiar shadows a blessed sight to her road-weary eyes. Each step took tremendous effort; she felt as if boulders had been tied to her ankles somewhere along the way, as her trek to Morrowind had been exhausting but successful. In actuality, the trip itself had not been so bad, but the escape from Solitude at its beginning had just missed being a disaster. Stormcloak guards hunted with a tenacity and sheer force of will that would not allow the offense of a prisoner escaping, and they had chased them for a good distance. She had planned for such a possibility, and had thought to hide horses nearby—without that foresight, she doubted that they would have pulled it off. The ride itself had been rather uneventful until they reached the border, when the safety of distance loosened Vendar's tongue. He had thanked her, voice breaking, for setting them free, and he swore to her that they would honor their end of the bargain. From that moment on, any lingering doubt she had about giving them a new start together disappeared, replaced with heart-soaring vindication that she had, for once, made the right decision. She left them at the border with a coin purse stuffed with enough gold to start their new lives, and one more warning to never return to Skyrim.<p>

Even with that portion of her mission completed, she had pushed on, driven and reluctant to rest, the knowledge that more was left to be done urging her onward towards Solitude and him. Now that she was here, standing in the courtyard of Castle Dour, some of her resolve faltered, her misgivings running high at the thought of his reaction. There was no weapon forged, no spell cast, that she feared more than his disappointment—she could counter everything else except that. But, she had no other option; she would never again turn tail and run—the last time she had made that choice, she had both caused and suffered through unimaginable pain. No matter the outcome of facing him, it had to be the better alternative. The freedom she felt in her heart ached to be shared, and there was only one man in the world that she could embrace it with.

Moving deliberately, she made her way through the castle, each stride forward carrying her towards resolution that she desperately needed. She breathed a huge sigh of relief as the few soldiers on night watch simply saluted or nodded their heads at her presence. Clearly, her culpability for the jailbreak was not yet known to them, and she was grateful for that tiny miracle—she would be able to make it to him without any diversions. She practically barged into the strategy room expecting to find him, and when she didn't, she moved up the stairs towards his nearby bedroom. The door stood closed in front of her, and she reached out, hand hovering over the knob, the last of her hesitation rearing its ugly head. Words behind her, fierce and menacing, sent her heart into spasms, "Welcome back, Stormblade."

Whirling around, she found herself pinned between Ulfric and the door, the normally ample hallway suffocating her like a coffin. His curt greeting and pointed use of her formal title, spitting it out as if it were an insult, demonstrated just how furious he was with her. He moved even closer, boxing her in, and she stepped back instinctively, her shoulders making contact with wood, as he continued, "I did not think that you would dare to show your face here again."

Her eyes sought out and found their counterparts, the cool-blue depths mesmerizing even in her frenzied state, "We have unfinished matters to settle..."

He nodded, eyes narrowing, "That we do."

His hand reached out for the door handle, accidentally brushing her hip as it passed to its destination. The sensation startled her, sending little shivers of delight along her flesh, an acknowledgement of the passion she still harbored for him. Intimacy had been so easy with him, their physical compatibility a blessing that she had never experienced with other lovers. She still longed to touch him despite all the turmoil and contention that had passed between them, and it took all of her restraint to resist her desires, her fingers itching to tangle themselves in his golden blonde mane. Enraptured by him, she listened as a pleasant hiss escaped his lips, a beautiful sound that graced her ears so often during their night together, the incidental contact clearly having an effect on him as well. A creaking noise interrupted her hazy thoughts, and he gestured behind her with arm outstretched. With a husky tone, he murmured, "Shall we then?"

Luckily, her feet responded and carried her across the threshold, the distance a remedy to her lust-clouded judgement. An awkward silence stretched, but sheer self-preservation kept her from being the first to open her mouth. He stormed past her, the action an unspoken admittance on his part that space needed to be kept between them. Tension was evident in his posture as his back faced her, and the lift of his shoulders radiated aggravation. She waited, not wanting to irritate him more—only a fool poked a hornet's nest.

"You never fail to amaze me with your unpredictability—before, you ran all the way to Cyrodiil when you had done absolutely nothing wrong, and now, you return to the scene of the crime where you acted as an accomplice."

"You're not the only one who has learned from the past. I no longer flee from unpleasant and impossible situations."

His bitter laughter echoed off the stone walls, "Unpleasant and impossible? I can't say that I disagree with your assessment, but, for your own good, you should have stayed away this time. If you're hoping for mercy, that well has long run dry—I have none left to give."

"I neither desire nor need your mercy. If you had wanted me arrested, you could have easily done so. The guards paid me absolutely no mind, which means you have kept your suspicions to yourself."

He turned towards her, disgust evident in the curl of his lip, "If I had found any solid proof, I would have put a bounty on your head without hesitation. But, I only had my gut instinct to go on at the time—I only wish that I had listened to it."

"It had to be obvious that it was an inside job when not a single Stormcloak died in the jailbreak. Maybe a confession would satisfy your need for proof? I can stand in the courtyard and recount every detail to an audience if you like..."

His infuriated voice trembled, "Do you have no guilt? No shame?"

Lifting her chin, she declared, "None."

"Obstinate and ridiculous," he fumed.

"Shame is for those who are embarrassed by their actions, and I am far from it. In fact, as I see it, I did you a favor—ridding you of a problem that you had no solution for. Tell me...would your conscience have allowed you to leave Elisif rotting in a cell?"

His lips pursed, like he had bitten into a bitter fruit, "You have no room to speak of a conscience since you have none."

The leery look he gave her told her that she had hit the mark, so she kept pushing, "Answer the question, Ulfric, and mind you, be sincere with your words. Speaking with your wife enlightened me in ways that you cannot possibly fathom..."

"And I'm sure that she gave you a completely unbiased account."

She shrugged, "I am aware that the truth is somewhere between both of your stories. But unlike you, Elisif had no reason to mislead me."

Wordlessly, he shook his head in disagreement, the wavy strands of his hair shimmering in the torchlight, but she pressed on, "You deny lying to me? What of all your talk of how accommodating she was in the bedroom?"

"Whatever you inferred from my comment is your own mind's doing."

He looked so self-satisfied that it took all her strength not to slap him right across the face. Voice rising and unsteady, she could barely control herself, "You may be able to dance around the words, but one thing you cannot deny are the dates. You asked her to marry you mere weeks after I ignored the letter where you begged me to come back to you..."

He snarled, "Don't be so full of yourself. Your return would have had no bearing on my decision to ask for Elisif's hand. Never forget that you were to be a mistress...and nothing more."

Bile churned in her stomach as his words demolished whatever ruins remained of her heart. Pushing the anguish down, she held her shoulders high, refusing to let him see the agony he could still cause her, even with the passage of so much time. He continued on, vicious and relentless, "But, my marital relations and my reasons for being with Elisif have absolutely nothing to do with your duplicity."

Emphatic, she screamed at him, interrupting, "They have everything to do with it! You scheme your way through every decision; every single one you make is a calculation that puts you a step ahead, no matter who you stomp on along the way. You chose her as a wife because you could hold her title and land for ransom, practically forcing her to agree to a loveless union, one that fit your particular needs. You pursued her—and in your foolish eagerness you overlooked an important variable—that she was using you as well. You brought this entire mess upon yourself, and I did my best to try and salvage the lives you destroyed in the process."

"That gives her the right to plot against me, to try and kill me? She deserved punishment for what she did—you said that yourself."

"Exile from one's beloved homeland is quite a price to pay," his eyes widening in surprise as she spoke, "Elisif will never again see a sunrise over Haafingar."

"The sentence for her crimes was not yours to decide."

"No, it wasn't," she conceded, nodding in agreement. "But, we come back to the same question that I asked you before, one that you still have not answered. Can you tell me that you would have been able to execute her? Or keep her imprisoned for life?"

Petulant, he sounded like a spoiled child, "What I would or would not have done is irrelevant. I do not need to justify my actions to you."

"Deflect if you must, but I know what I saw—you were moved by her pleas for Vendar's life, and your guilt never would have allowed you to kill her. You would have freed her eventually, even if that had made you seem weak in the eyes of your subjects. Now, you can act like the victim and put a price on her head. Not that it will do much good, as Elisif the Fair is no longer."

Seconds ticked by before he responded, sounding weary and drained, "Let's say that you're correct in your arrogant assumptions—it still doesn't explain why you chose to intervene. What could Elisif ever say to you that would make you betray me? I thought we had made our peace."

Tears filled her eyes, but she refused to spill them, as she managed, "This wasn't about some petty form of revenge for me, Ulfric. I do not abide by her decisions, and I made it clear to Elisif that if she ever sought to harm you again, that she would find herself very much dead. But, after seeing her with Vendar and speaking with her..."

His expression soured as he caught on, interrupting bluntly, "You mean their mutual confessions of devotion. Please do not tell me that you felt some sort of misguided pity for Elisif and her elven plaything."

Her eyes narrowed at his dismissal, but she didn't respond. The air around them crackled with anxiety, threatening at any moment to explode. He shook his head, disgusted, "Your foolish sentimentality has blinded you. Tell me—would you take pity on any Mer, or just those who confess to love a Nord?"

She seethed, her fury breaking free of her control, "You think this is about Vendar being an elf? Have I not proved to you time and time again that race matters not to me? I have killed countless, be they Mer, Nord, or Imperial, for the cause. If they dared to raise a sword against the Stormcloaks, they fell by it. I took pity on a woman who knew what she wanted and gladly gave up everything she had to obtain it."

She could almost see the mental cogs clicking into place, as he finally pieced the puzzle together, but she didn't cease driving her point home. "Unlike some, she had the faith to stand for what she believed in, the courage to sacrifice for that which she held most dear. That woman deserved another chance, and I gave it to her."

Mouth gaping, he stared at her, until eventually, he regained control of his jaw. He spoke, "Feren...I..."

She shook her head, interrupting any words that he might have, unable to deal with them at the moment. "I will turn myself into the guards. My life is a small price to pay to give someone the opportunity for happiness that I so desperately sought, but never could find. Elisif knew what she had, Ulfric—she seized onto it and never let it go."

Turning and moving toward the door, she paused when he spoke, "Your arrest is unnecessary."

"Really? Aiding and abetting a felon is a crime, and you said yourself that I had no right to decide Elisif's fate. If you need a body in a jail cell to soothe your retribution-hungry ego, then I will take her place," she spat, replying without laying eyes on him.

She felt his fingers lock around her elbow, halting her forward movement, but she didn't dare turn her head to look over her shoulder, the tears finally flowing freely down her cheeks. "The suffering ends here, Feren...for everyone. Please..."

She nodded slowly, pulling her arm free of his hold, as quiet, contemplative moments passed between them. Inhaling deeply, he gathered himself, "If you are dead set upon serving penance, there are more beneficial means of doing so than a prison sentence. I realize that I have no right to ask this of you, but I also know that you have a profound love for your home. Would you consider organizing the rebuild of Solitude?"

Stupefied, she spun around in disbelief, amazed by his display of trust in her after everything. Forgetting her tear-stained face, she asked, "Me?"

He nodded, an ever-so-slight smile on his lips, "I can think of no better candidate. The people of Solitude have come to recognize you as their savior, fighting to end battles in their city twice over. They boast of how you have your roots in their proud city, and it would comfort them all to know that a daughter of Solitude is leading the effort to return the capital to its former glory."

"I'm no leader, Ulfric, and I doubt that they will listen. I have no authority over them."

He shook his head, "A leader can be made with laws and armies, but his followers are apathetic, and they only listen because they are forced. Solitude's people will follow you, Feren, because you inspire them. They will watch you give your all in the effort to rebuild, and they will gladly follow suit. Besides, you will be working in an official capacity, and will have any support that you need from me. But, I suspect that none will question you."

Doubt remained in her mind, but she was admittedly thrilled by his idea. The city and its people meant a great deal to her, and with Elisif gone, there would be no one to oversee the reconstruction. Solitude had molded her into what she was, and maybe, she could return the favor by rebuilding the city. Giddy and eager to get to work, her feet had carried her into the hallway before she realized she hadn't given him an answer. Stopping, she called out to him jubilantly, "I accept your offer."

His raucous laughter brought a slight blush to her face. Joining her in the hall, he asked, "Excited much?"

Nodding at him, she replied, "There is a lot to accomplish, and no time like the present to begin."

The corner of his mouth lifted in a tiny smirk, "Come then. Let's get started..."


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N** – Sorry guys. Something, other than my sanity, had to give between end-of-semester tests, finals next week, and working forty-plus hours running a business while the owner took a month-long vacation in Italy (Do I sound jealous? Cause I am). Unfortunately, that something was the time I had devoted to writing.

**Disclaimer** – I still do not own Skyrim.

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><p>A chill danced across her feet, a southerly breeze perfumed with the salt of the sea, rustling the various parchments that sat scattered across the tiny table. The patio of her home had undeniably transformed into an outdoor office, a place where she tolerated the monotonous task of reviewing supply orders and invoices only because of the spectacular view of the coast. Proudspire Manor had become her unofficial base of operations during the rebuild, its central location affording her easy access to all parts of Solitude. Additionally, its use allowed her to be more visible to the city's people—she was a familiar neighbor, not some ignorant bureaucrat making uninformed decisions behind castle walls.<p>

Transparency was vital if success was the desired outcome, but if she were being honest with herself, she would also admit that personal feelings had factored into her decision to use Proudspire. Ulfric had given her an opportunity to both demonstrate her love for Solitude and make restitution for her crimes—and for that she was immensely grateful—but she had no desire to share a workspace with him in Castle Dour, even though that had been his initial suggestion. Too much had happened between them for her to just sweep the huge hodge-podge of emotions that she felt towards him under the rug. She wanted to be able to give her all—mind, body and soul—to the effort of repairing the city, and to do that, she had to maintain some distance. Even with that, she still saw him often; bi-weekly progress meetings were held at Castle Dour with all of the community leaders, and sporadically, he would pop up at her home to meet with her individually. She questioned the motives for his mostly impromptu visits, suspecting that they were more a means of snooping than anything else, but their conversations were always to the point and professional.

The sheer volume of work that needed to be done kept her focused, in a constant state of motion, and she found that the vast majority of the daylight hours were spent at various construction sites, coordinating supply caravans and speaking with countless craftsmen of masonry and carpentry. So that left her the evening hours, when construction ceased, to contend with the mounds of paperwork that were generated by such a huge undertaking. Leaning forward, she shifted in her chair, pulling the quill from its well and applying her signature to one of the many stacks of invoices that needed to be paid. Each day's worth of work, whether measured in nails or ink, brought the reconstruction of the city that much closer to complete, and luckily for her, the residents of Solitude were a formidable bunch, hard workers who felt deep municipal pride. Everyone, from lowly beggars to wealthy merchants, was pitching in, and overseeing such a motley group was a challenge, but it was one that she relished. Within a single month's span, they had made immense progress, and together, they would see the city returned to her splendor.

His pleasant backwater accent startled her, shattering the relative quiet that accompanied her bookkeeping, "Do you ever do anything other than pore over papers?"

She glanced over her shoulder at the proud Nord slouched in the doorway, positioned as if he were propping it up. "I'll have you know that this is important business…"

"So is eating—which you have not done since this morning."

"I spent most of the day touring the rebuilt docks, and then Hjorunn showed me the progress being made on the mill. Which left little time for all of this wretched mess," she grimaced while gesturing at the overflowing piles.

Laughing loudly at her grumbled excuse, it began to fade away as he disappeared into the house. Within moments, the clamoring sounds of pots and pans and muttered curses reached her ears, and she couldn't help the smile that formed on her lips. Despite her initial protests, it was Ralof's standard routine to show up in the evening and fuss over her—particularly her eating habits. Her hesitation stemmed from his declaration of feelings, and her immense fear of either leading him on or driving him away. She had always cared for her dear friend, but his confession had pushed the boundaries of their relationship, and it sat hovering on the edge of something that could be equally glorious or disastrous. In quiet moments, she had tried to envision a life with him, and she could easily see it, if given ample time and space to clear her own befuddled emotions. She knew that it was incredibly selfish of her to desire the limbo that she had them in, but until she was absolutely certain of her feelings, she didn't want to commit to anything. She wasn't sure if he had the patience or desire to wait for a screwed-up mess such as herself, but he was always the gentleman, never pushing or prodding. Instead, Ralof was just there, night after night, and the stability was exactly what she needed.

Strong hands grasped her shoulders from behind, a gentle, tactile disturbance of her thoughts, as he murmured, "The work will still be here tomorrow, Feren. Please have supper with me."

The pleasant smell of stew and fresh bread reached her nose, melting the last of her stubborn resolve. "Well, I do hate to see a grown man beg…"

He smiled at her, eyes shining, and led her by the hand into the living area. The table was set, meal piping hot and ready to eat, and she gobbled it down eagerly, her stomach scolding her for forgetting about its needs. In between bites, she teased him, "How did you manage to become such a good cook?"

Shooting her a dubious look, he replied, "Soldiers like a good meal, and if you can give them something to look forward to, no matter how small, it boosts morale. My men were always happy at dinner time."

They continued eating in companionable silence, but she noticed that he unconsciously fussed with his utensils, a sign of nervousness that she had never witnessed in him before. Normally, he was the epitome of relaxation during their dinner chats, joking and gregarious, but tonight, he was reserved and distracted, seemingly edgy. Waiting patiently through the meal, she gave him time to address it, but he never did. Concerned and too tired to beat around the bush, she bluntly asked, "Is something bothering you, Ralof?"

Clearing his throat, she saw his eyes shift anxiously, and she steeled herself mentally for his words. "I received a letter from Gerdur today."

The subject was not what she expected, and, unsure of why a note from his sister would unnerve him so, she decided to inquire further, "Good news, I hope. How are she and Hod faring?"

"Well enough. The mill is going strong, and it keeps her occupied. I was surprised to see a letter from her—she rarely writes."

Hoping that a little levity would soothe him, she teased, "Maybe she misses her brother eating all of her food and making a mess of her house."

He smirked ever so slightly, "I'll have you know that I quit mooching off of my sister months ago. Gerdur would skin me alive to hear me say it, but I always felt like I was a burden on her and Hod. So, I purchased some land and built my own home. I was actually in Whiterun obtaining supplies for it when the recruitment call went out."

"Impressive…although I'm not surprised. You've been a tremendous help here with the rebuild."

He shook his head dismissively, "I've done what little I could, but I am hardly a craftsman."

"Don't sell yourself short, Ralof. There aren't many who have the patience or ability to build a home. I know that from personal experience."

"But, you can oversee the reconstruction of an entire city?" he asked, lip curling in a smile.

"Supervision does not require woodworking skills," she offered, the grin on her face growing to match his.

"Don't like getting your hands dirty?"

"Have you seen me use a saw? I couldn't cut a straight line if my life depended on it."

Laughing together seemed to ease some of his discomfort, but she could still read the anxiety in his body language—clearly something else remained on his mind. Luckily, he went on without prompting, "I asked her to keep an eye on the property while I was here, but she and Hod are expecting again..."

Interrupting, she replied, "That is fantastic news, Ralof! You're to be an uncle again."

He smiled, but it looked a little sad, almost hesitant, "With the new baby on the way, I can't ask her to continue all of the upkeep of the mill and two houses..."

Nodding, she understood where this conversation was going, even though she was sure that she wasn't going to like the outcome. Taking a deep breath, he continued, "I leave for Riverwood in the morning. Gerdur would never ask this of me, but she should not need to. My home is not her responsibility, and if anything, I owe her tremendously—I should be there to help her with the mill."

"How long will you be gone?" The innocuous question left her lips without thought.

He sighed, his face falling slightly, "I won't be coming back."

The look of confusion on her face must have spurred him onward. "I'm retiring my commission, Feren—war and battle no longer hold any excitement for me. I've fought hard to win Skyrim freedom from the Empire, and now, I feel that this country is moving in the right direction. The High-King is a true Nord, not one who will roll over and allow Cyrodiil to dictate our lives. I've given enough of my life fighting for the cause; it's time that I reaped the spoils."

Shocked by his announcement, it was hard to find her voice. She finally managed, "The Stormcloaks will miss your blade, Ralof, but you've earned it."

"So have you…"

Her stomach flipped, the implications of his words hitting her hard. "You deserve peace, Feren, just as much as me, if not more so. We can have it, together, in Riverwood."

His offer was tempting in so many ways, but she had never been one to half-ass hard work. She shook her head sadly, "My task here in Solitude is incomplete. I can't just leave these people and this city."

"You are unselfish to a fault. For years now I've watched as you have done everything you possibly could for the Stormcloaks and Skyrim. I remember the vibrant, hot-headed young woman I met in the back of that cart. Will you tell me that you are unaffected by all the turmoil you've witnessed?"

She said nothing, her silence offering more proof than she could ever voice in opposition. "I know fatigue when I see it, Feren, and since you've returned, it's been written all over your face."

His assumption was mostly correct, and she was weary, but not of war. He continued, relentless, "You've spent the better part of three years giving everything you have to everyone else. For once, you deserve to do something for yourself. No one in all of Skyrim would deny you that right."

"It's not that simple, Ralof. I have sole responsibility for this city's massive repair effort. Do you honestly believe that I can just abandon it?"

The look he gave her stirred guilt deep within her, "Is it simply civic duty that keeps you here...or something else? You may think me oblivious, but I'm not. If someone else is vying for your affections, I deserve to know who the competition is."

"No one pursues me," the truth left her lips, even while it avoided an unpleasant fact.

"Maybe not...but someone does haunt you, Feren."

So very perceptive, he knew and she couldn't even deny it. She wanted to yell, to scream, to refute his claim that she was still entangled, but the words died in her throat. He deserved the truth. "Everyone has a past, Ralof. I am trying my hardest not to live in mine."

His hand found hers on the table, grasping it desperately, "Then, maybe you need a fresh start, in a new place away from your demons. Ever since I laid eyes on you that night in camp, I've thought of nothing else except what a future together could be like."

She smiled at him, his words almost too sweet to bear, "You've given me hope for the future as well."

He shook his head, "Not just hope, Feren. The reality of us, of our lives together…I can picture it all when I close my eyes. Happy and thriving, with you as my wife, and our children…"

Stunned, her mouth failed her, unable to even get her feeble tongue to move. When she had thought about a relationship with Ralof, never had little ones entered that vision. In fact, she never had considered being a mother—death was always a missed parry away. Children needed stability and safety, things that her line of work did not offer. Maybe it had been foolishly shortsighted of her, but she had never equated marriage with having a family—with her upbringing, the concept was something abstract and foreign, a thing meant to be had by people other than herself. She sputtered, finally managing, "I don't know anything about being a mother, Ralof. I deal in dagger thrusts and counterattacks, not runny noses and skinned knees. I don't give life, I live to give it an end."

Voice fierce and defiant, he countered, "You are the best warrior that I have ever witnessed in combat, Feren, but you have other traits that are just as remarkable. I've never known another person to be as compassionate—it can be seen in the concern that you have for complete strangers, and the warmth that you have for those around you. You may doubt yourself, but I never will...not for one second."

The fervent look her gave her made her tremble, his words echoing the heartfelt devotion that he carried for her, and it made her want to believe in the impossible. Voice quivering, she could barely whisper, "I wish I could be half the woman that you see in me, Ralof."

The chair scraping against stone caught her attention, and she watched in sorrow as he moved toward her, coming to stand next to her seated form. Tears threatened to spill down her cheeks, and she couldn't bring herself to look at his face, knowing that would break the dam. He murmured gently, "I can't force you to see that which is obvious to everyone around you, Feren. You know the depth of what I feel for you, and I would move every stone that forms the Throat of the World just to be at your side. But, I deserve a woman who is committed to me, just as much as I am to her. You claim that there is nothing holding you back, and it's long past time for you to prove that. I've been patient, and I will continue to be for as long as you need. But, I have to know that you have moved forward, that you have left him in the past. When you're ready to do that, you know where you can find me."

His lips brushed the top of her head as he whispered, "Goodbye, Feren. I hope to see you soon..."

In her periphery, his shadow moved, the door clicking shut behind him. It echoed through the empty house as tears of self-loathing finally tumbled down from her eyes.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N** – Only one more chapter to go (which I may actually divide into two if the length gets out of hand). Enjoy!

**Disclaimer** – I do not own Skyrim or its characters. Bethesda does.

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><p>Antsy, she tried to remain still while being begrudgingly attentive to Erikur as he droned on about the lack of leadership in the city, rolling her eyes mentally at his poorly disguised "pick me" campaign. Lecturing was not his strong suit, and it was a pointless endeavor on his part; anyone with the common sense of a skeever would recognize that Solitude needed a jarl, and everyone seated in the room could attest to that fact. She had assumed that these progress meetings at Castle Dour would eventually devolve into that inevitable subject, but she had no desire to participate in the conversation. It disappointed her immensely to know that the fledging allegiance she had built amongst the city's residents could be abused or spoiled by a few wealthy idiots who wanted to bicker like toddlers over who should lead. She was tempted to throw the lot of them out, banning them from Solitude, but it was not within her authority, and she knew that others would just take their place. Hlard and Erikur had good but terribly misguided hearts; they both thought they were viable candidates for jarl, and each saw the other as competition. In her opinion, the sheer fact that they choose to squabble amongst themselves instead of finding a solution proved that neither were capable, and she would be damned to Oblivion before she allowed their petty pissing contest to ruin the city after all the work that everyone had invested into getting it back into shape. It had taken nearly three months, and there was still some work to be done, but the vast majority of the damage had been repaired.<p>

Her anxiety stemmed not only from the unnecessary lecture, but from the general confusion she found herself in. Never in all her days had she ever been so conflicted—as a youth, decisions were often life and death, and you knew you chose correctly when you lived to see another day. Her internal compass had always been infallible, leading her forward, never wavering; but now, it was motionless, unwilling or unable to show her the way. The worst part was that she had no one to blame but herself, and Ralof had been totally justified in asking for a demonstration of her willingness to move on. She loathed the idea of leaving Solitude at this pivotal moment, but now, with the task of reconstruction complete, how could she refuse the simple request Ralof had made after all that he had done for her? He had only one wish, a future together, but was she ready to commit to that? It was time to make a decision, and there was only one way to be sure, only one test that she needed to pass, only one person that she needed to speak with.

The whining stopped, interrupted by a voice that called to her through her thoughts, one that would haunt her for all her days and into the beyond of Sovngarde. "I hear your concerns, Erikur, and they will be addressed very soon, I assure you. In the meantime, I think that we have all had more than enough words for today. We will reconvene Tirdas of next week."

She remained seated as the others filed out, an action contrary to her usual behavior—she was normally the first to exit. Ulfric noticed almost immediately, ceasing his movement and opting to stay in his chair at the table. When the other participants had cleared the room, he asked, "Is there something else, Feren?"

He looked weary, drained from all the talk during the meeting she was sure, so she offered, "I wanted to speak with you, but if the blowhard was too much, it can wait until tomorrow."

He shook his head, "I will always have an ear for you. What do you need?"

Her eyes trailed over to the guards standing near the door, and she didn't even need to ask. "Eifid, Braste...will you leave us please."

The door closed, and for the first time in months, she allowed herself a moment alone with the man who had been both her destruction and salvation. Her eyes drank him in, still thirsty, taking a long hard look as she inventoried things she had forced herself to ignore until now. Never had she known him to wear his long hair tied back, the shadows around his eyes and his ashen complexion a testament to the grueling and frequent trips he took between the capital and Windhelm. She hoped they were still friendly enough to be frank, as she couldn't hold her tongue, "You look terrible, Ulfric."

Dry laughter, bitter and reluctant, left his lips, "Well...running a country is hardly a glamorous endeavor, yet I manage to survive. Surely, my appearance isn't what you wanted to speak about."

Focusing, she shook her head in the negative, opting to tackle the easy subject first. "No. I'm curious about your thoughts on the jarlship. I've known you too long to believe that you haven't already made a decision. Or at the very least, I suspect that you've narrowed your choice down to a few candidates."

He sighed, "That seems to be the question on everyone's mind, but at least you have the common decency to spare me the self-nomination spiel."

Her chortle interrupted him, and they shared a laugh at Erikur's expense. After, he continued, "I do have someone in mind for the position, but, I have not offered it yet, so I am hesitant to speak on details."

"I understand if I no longer have your confidence, but it would give me a bit of peace to know who will rule the city that I have given so much to. I swear that the information won't leave this room—I just need to know that whomever gains control will have this city's best interests in heart. The people and I haven't spent the better part of three months bringing Solitude back to have it bogged down in political bullshit."

"I don't think that will be an issue."

He wasn't being very forthcoming, and she needed him to understand why it meant so much to her. She pressed on, "I also have more personal reasons for my inquiry. My task here is for the most part complete, and I want to turn over what little remains to the future jarl."

"That should be easy enough to accomplish," his impish tone and growing smile setting off warning bells in her brain.

Why was he being so intentionally obtuse? Did he really distrust her so much after everything that had happened between them? True, she had defied him before, but she had thought them past all of that—something was almost assuredly amiss. Giving him a hard stare, she narrowed her eyes, "I know that devious, scheme-hatching grin when I see it. What are you up to?"

He blinked at her in mock innocence, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You can share now, Ulfric, or I can hound you relentlessly for the next several days until you cave, like we both know you will. I'm sure you remember how very persuasive I can be."

Eyes twinkling in amusement, he clearly caught on to her reference of times long past. Fondly, she recalled the day that she had managed to pry the most classified of information from him—his date of birth. Galmar had made the mistake of mentioning its impending arrival, and like a hound on the trail of a wounded animal, she had been absolutely relentless. He hated acknowledging it, let alone celebrating, but she had begged, pleaded, and bargained until he told her, and it only cost her the making of one birthday dinner to obtain it. They had ate, laughed, and gotten drunk together like only close friends could. It stunned her just how endlessly her tired soul ached and longed for that lost friendship.

He sighed, the noise ending her reminiscence, as he threw his hands up exasperatedly, "You're so frustratingly impossible sometimes. I wanted to wait a few more weeks, until the rebuild effort was entirely complete, but clearly you won't let it rest. There'll be no quarreling and no transitions because I am hoping that you will accept the position as Jarl of Solitude."

Her eyes felt like they were about to jump out of her skull. Mouth gaping, the air burned going down her throat due to its forced and furious intake. "What!?"

"You've done a remarkable job here with the reconstruction of the city, Feren. Everyone who sat at this very table respects what you have accomplished, especially since it has been completed early and under budget. I have no doubt that there is noother person alive who could have done it."

"Everyone who was here also has designs on Solitude, and ambitions of their own. Do you think they will accept your decision?"

"They'll get over it and behave themselves. Their acceptance is totally irrelevant—my reasoning is my own and the determination is mine as High-King to make. It's not up for debate."

Shaking her head, she still couldn't wrap her thoughts around his offer. "I am a rather poor choice, considering my sole qualification is my leadership during the last few months."

Rising from his chair, he paced over towards the window, staring out across the city. "Don't downplay your efforts, but there is more to it than that."

She waited, hoping for some sort of explanation, as he continued, "This city and its people deserve a leader who's capable of making difficult decisions, and I need someone who I can trust and work easily with. I will also admit that it comforts me to know that the jarl will have a personal vested interest in this city. Your love for Solitude knows no bounds, and you probably won't appreciate the comparison, but both you and Elisif share that trait. Her passion for this city is what drove her to become an excellent jarl, and I believe it will do the same for you."

What he said made sense, but her mind still could not accept the idea. She was no politician, plain and simple. She started to speak, but he interrupted, voice barely above a whisper, "There are other factors in play as well...ones that are closer to my heart."

Her brain had no problems making that illogical leap. "Have you lost your senses? Your heart has no place in this."

"Easy to say, but impossible for me to actually accomplish. I would be the most obvious and despicable of liars if I claimed that our history never factored into my decision."

Cackling like a hyena, she couldn't control the disgusted laughter from deep within her belly. "Really? So that's what this boils down to..."

He scoffed, "No...our past is not the only reason, Feren. I would recognize the leadership potential in you regardless of our previous relationship. Is it so horrible of me to see and admire that strength within you? Should I just ignore it because we have shared a bed? I hardly think so."

He paused, his tone growing wistful, "Becoming jarl also means that you will stay in Solitude, and maybe—with time and through working together—things between us could change for the better. I have found a glimpse of hope amongst the darkness, Feren, and I can't lose sight of it. If you take away a man's dreams, you may as well bury him."

She sighed in frustration, "We've gone the rounds on this impasse before, Ulfric, and little has changed except the title. A mistress then, a politician now, both unsavory and unacceptable to me. This scheme of yours is just one more way for you to attempt to skirt the real issue. You don't want me to lead Solitude, you just want to find a way to save face. Now you can claim to have fallen for the jarl, and not some Elven street-trash."

"I just want you in my life, Feren. This is a way to accomplish that, and you deserve the jarlship," defeated, he whimpered, as he paced anxiously back towards the table.

"No—you don't want me—you want some counterfeit, altered version. You have the sheer gall to think that you can transform me into something I'm not, and it speaks volumes that you think whores and social-charlatans are worthy of your affections. You could have had the real me, Ulfric, a million times over and in a million different ways, but you weren't man enough to do what you needed to do—and you still aren't."

Silence stretched between them, and she couldn't stomach looking at him any longer, keeping her eyes locked on the wooden slats of the table in front of her. Her voice trembled in equal parts anger and sorrow, "But, none of that matters any longer. I'm afraid I will have to decline your offer, as I came here with the intent to quit my current position."

In her periphery, his fists slammed into the table menacingly. "I do not accept your resignation."

"That's too bad. I leave for Riverwood in three days. I am offering to transition the work to whomever you deem will be my replacement, as it will make the transfer smoother for everyone involved."

Growling, he spit the word, "Riverwood."

She said nothing, as he continued on his rant, "I wondered where your little piss-ant, underfoot love-sick puppy dog had disappeared off to. I guess that you intend to follow him?"

"Beyond the next three days, my plans are none of your concern."

He blatantly ignored her dismissal, firing back, "It takes a truly selfish lout to ask you to leave Solitude—your home, the place that you adore and that has molded you to become the woman he supposedly cares for..."

"Watch your tongue, Ulfric," she sneered as she rose from the table. "You have no idea what you are speaking of right now."

He stared her down, unflinching, as he homed in on her poorly disguised guilt like a luna moth to a torch. Incredulous, he asked, "You haven't told him, have you? You're willing to leave your life behind for this man, to be with him, and you haven't told him..."

Pinned, she couldn't refute the logic he was using, but that didn't mean that she welcomed his judgment. Defiant, she cut him off, "I'm not here to answer your questions."

"Does he know anything at all about you? Your love of slaughterfish egg soup? Your preference for the scent of lavender flowers? Your dislike of the rain because it reminds you of the cold, lonely alleys that you braved as a child? Why doesn't he know, Feren? How many people have you let in?" His voice was sad, almost apologetic.

Talos damn him, she hated him so much right now. "Spare me your pity. He will know soon enough, and I guarantee you, that it will _not_ matter to him. Unlike some, he cares for me, and all parts of me, no matter what they are."

The sting of her words dug him; she could see their effects on his face as she continued, "He wants nothing more than to make me his wife and build a family and future with _me, _just as I am."

"But, is that what you desire?" he asked, the straight-to-the-point question hanging between them. Pouncing like a jaguar, he was upon her in an instant, seizing on her momentary lapse of attention as her brain processed his words. His manhandling stunned her, and her fight-or-flight mechanism thundered into action as he spun her—one of his arms held hers against her body, and the other's hand gripped her windpipe menacingly. She could feel his heartbeat pounding against her back, the lean lines of his body pressed sharply against hers. He was intoxicatingly warm, sensual and dangerous—the ultimate predator, and his lips were so close that his breath tickled her ear, "Your body lives for the fight, Feren. Listen to the glorious hymns it sings at this moment. You are not meant for the stagnancy of peace."

Only her fiercest equal in combat could make her yearn this way, his words stoking the passion that she carried for battle. His demanding whisper called to her, "You've fought alongside me, you know me intimately...and yet you're ready to strike me down right at this very moment. You are barely controlled flame, ready to leap and burn in an instant. You are glorious, unbridled retribution—a goddess of war. Can you give this up to be some fool's wife, barefoot and pregnant?"

Her pulse thrummed loudly in her ears, the truth of his words echoing in her head as she dug her nails into the soft skin of his forearm. He jerked, yelping, and she turned, bringing her knee up into his groin. He blocked most of the blow with his arm, but he stumbled back, a knowing smirk on his face. She charged him, unable to restrain her rage, hurling herself like a spear into the fray. Her momentum carried them, and she braced as they slammed into the wall, her fingers grasping his collar threateningly. Through gritted teeth, she growled, "If you know me so well, then you should know better than to provoke me."

His grin never fell, "I pick my battles. You have no weapon, and I'll gladly take a few punches if it makes you wake up and realize what you're throwing away."

The combined sound of their exerted breathing filled the room, and she froze as the sensation of his fingertips against her cheek sent chills racing through the core of her body. Light words gently cajoled her, "Have you forgotten that we were friends long before we were any more than that, Feren? We talked about so many things, thoughts that I would never share with anyone else, and we spoke of the ambitions that drove us onward. The glory of the good fight—you wanted to chase the Imperials out of Skyrim, and then take the battle to the Dominion. You surely never mentioned retirement or having children. I know you, Feren. Don't settle for a dream that isn't yours."

Tears stung her eyes, and she didn't care if they tumbled in front of him. "You do know me, Ulfric..."

Her voice cracked as a crushing realization shook her to her very soul—no one and no relationship would ever come close to what they had once shared. Even in this shattered and separate state, he recognized her deepest desires better than she did. Her mind drifted back to uncomplicated times shared between them, and the heartfelt, hopeful conversations they used to have over mead. How could someone so dear to her then make her feel so horribly inadequate now? It broke her to accept that he had such intimate knowledge of her and yet, she was still somehow unworthy to him. Vitriol tainted her strengthened tone, "But, what you know, is apparently, not good enough for you."

Pushing herself away from him and his devilish hands, she turned for the exit door, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw him move towards her, lifting his hand in her direction. Shaken and hurt, she warned, "If you touch me again, I promise that it will be worse than a few punches..."

He stilled, and she ended the conversation. "Send the name of my replacement via courier to Proudspire."

Offering her final farewell, it crossed her lips effortlessly and sadly, "There's no scurrying off in the dawn this time, Ulfric—I leave with my honor intact. Please stay safe."

Wiping away the tears, and with her head held high, she moved through the doorway, proudly and deliberately, towards a new life.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N** – So this is part 1 of the final installment of For the Cause. I ended up dividing it into two chapters because I felt that it flowed slightly better that way. Part 2 is still in progress, and will be on its way soon. I'm dragging my feet a bit, as I'll admit to being a little sad to see it end. Alas, all good things must.

**Disclaimer** – I do not own Skyrim or any of its characters. All of that belongs to Bethesda.

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><p>Icy and brisk, the wind blew through her cloak and into her back, thrusting her onward as her feet carried her across the threshold of Proudspire, the sun mercifully setting on her final day as Thane of Solitude. Somehow, she had survived the last few days of unending questions and work, tying up countless loose ends and smoothing ruffled feathers as she made her exit from the city's administration. Matters had not been helped by the formal but less than reassuring announcement—Ulfric had not even had the common decency to mention her by name; it had simply read that Hlard would assume leadership of the rebuild effort. No mention of thanks, no platitudes of generosity; even in an official capacity he had dismissed her worth. Of course, everyone had picked up on the obvious snub and lack of information about her future plans, and so the busybodies had been relentless in their efforts of attempting to pry every morsel of reason from her. It had been her utmost pleasure to quickly shut them down and direct them and their inquires toward the office of the High-King—if he wished to be childish about the situation, so could she.<p>

Ignoring the growing irritation she felt at her nagging thoughts, she climbed the stairs, making her way towards the only things she desired right now—a few glasses of brandy and the privacy of her room. Rounding the landing, her eyes came upon the stout, familiar form pacing in her living area, and she froze as his voice boomed, "Stormblade."

"Galmar. To what do I owe the pleasure of this late visit?"

She really knew better than to tease him, but she couldn't help herself. The old man was never one to make social calls, especially since this one required patience in waiting for her to return home. His presence was an exception, something out of the ordinary, and she could take a guess as to the reasons behind it. Nevertheless, she wanted to hear them directly from him.

"Spare my tired ears the bullshit—you know why I'm here. I hadn't made it two feet within the city's gates when I was blindsided with news of your retirement," his sneer unmistakable.

Climbing the last set of stairs, she strode deliberately into the living area, shoulders back in anticipation. The hair on her neck was already on end, his tone making it obvious that she wasn't going to enjoy their conversation. Chin held high, she offered, "My apologies, but your complaint lies with the Blue Palace. You're not my commanding officer, so it's not my job to inform you of my resignation."

He shook his head, disgust evident in the curl of his lip. "I warned that fool about you. I told him that you didn't have what it takes, and I was spot on."

She laughed loudly and blatantly, the sheer lunacy of his statement too much to overlook. "I didn't have what it takes? Have you forgotten, in your senility, that I saved the King from the hangman's noose? Or is my participation in all the victories over the years null and void now because I dare decide to leave? Question my choices all you want, Galmar, but I will not stand for you to question my valor."

"You think this is about being a good soldier? You think I stand here, arguing with your pigheaded ass about your service to the Stormcloaks? I urged Ulfric to stay away from _you_."

His emphasis left little to the imagination, and if she was angry before, she was furious now. "Not good enough for your King, am I?"

"No. Ulfric needs a woman who will support him in all endeavors, whether they are to her detriment or not. You are far too stubborn and uncontrollable to meet that requirement."

"I never realized that you were such a bitter, misogynistic lout. If you weren't twice my age, I'd kick your teeth in and show you just what a real woman can do."

"Keep proving my point. You lack discipline and self-control."

"You're still standing, old man. Clearly, I possess some restraint."

He smirked at her, "Some...but not enough. A King must rule with clear authority—do you think his people will respect him if they see his own mate defy him?"

"If Ulfric wanted a mindless follower to cower at his feet and be at his beck and call, he would have picked any of those throne-chasing hangabouts who pursued him. He chose me."

"And what good has it done him? Luckily, none know and only a few suspect that you betrayed him by helping Elisif to escape. But, his very public choice to put you in charge of the rebuild, a decision that caused quite a few grumbles and complaints, is now being openly questioned in light of your sudden resignation. Some of the Jarls see the conflict in his inner circle as a reason to doubt his ability to lead—after all, if he can't control his own court, how can he rule an entire country?"

He paused as his baritone splintered, the sound unmistakably weak and so very foreign coming from him. "But, you are right, Stormblade—he did choose you, for all the problems that it has caused him; and I respected that decision, even if I didn't agree. For that reason, I have never pushed myself into the business of you two before—even though, at times, I have witnessed it harm both of you tremendously. But, I can't stand by anymore—he flat out refused to see me this afternoon, and that is something he has never done. In fact, he is not taking any visitors whatsoever, which is completely unacceptable—as King, he cannot simply bury his head in the sand like an ostrich. I'm hoping that he will make an exception for you."

The desperation in Galmar's voice touched her; it was very much unlike Ulfric to deny his friend. But, she wasn't sure she should be the one to intrude or intercede. There was nothing left to be said between them, and the sight of him would only undo her resolve.

"I'm not sure he would see me, Galmar, if he turned you away. I'm certain that a visit from me would only upset him further."

He huffed, looking agitated as he moved toward the stairs, stopping at the top to turn and face her, "Maybe you've fooled yourself into believing that, but I have known him from his birth and have served him every day since. He is not only my King; he is my brother. I'm begging you, from one who loves him to another, please go see him."

The slump of the man's shoulders as he walked down the stairs was too much for her sober mind to bear. The glass decanter on the shelf beckoned to her, and she quickly answered, pouring herself the first generous helping as she heard the door slam below her. As her throat burned from the alcohol, she silently cursed Galmar and his well-intended meddling. She didn't need to know that Ulfric was suffering, although she suspected as much. It pained her to think of him isolated, but he was a grown man, and if that is how he wanted to deal with the situation then that was his choice. Pity begat fury as she decided that it was his own stubborn idiocy that was the cause of all this heartache, and for all she cared, he could stew in his own pot. Her second glass of brandy went down much smoother than the first.

She discarded her cloak, tossing it blindly across the room, and flopped unceremoniously into the nearby chair, gingerly carrying her friend the decanter with her—who needed a glass anyway? The crackle and hiss of the nearby burning timber in the fireplace sounded warm and welcoming, but she felt just the opposite. Cold and unappreciated, even her own home no longer gave her any comfort. Physically, not much had changed, since Jordis was still going to be inhabiting Proudspire in her absence, and she would come to visit from time to time. It was more so that every inch of it reminded her of just how faulty a person she was, of how she couldn't get happiness right with two different chances.

She still intended to travel tomorrow to Riverwood, but that prospect no longer held any chance at joy. Just a few short days ago, the thought of leaving gave her hope, a lightness and levity that maybe, eventually, she could make a life with Ralof. It had only taken thirty minutes alone with Ulfric to realize just how foolish she had been. He was one-hundred percent infuriatingly right: she was settling, grasping at straws, a desperate woman drowning in Solitude. She did not want to give up combat, she had no desire for a family—her one true wish was to live and die by the sword for all of her days. Not only was she being dishonest with herself, it was also extremely unfair of her to take on a relationship with Ralof under such false pretenses, and she planned to explain it to him in person. Hopefully, by the end of their conversation, she would still have a friend in him, since nothing else would ever be—after experiencing the blazing sun, she would rather dwell in total eclipse than survive by the moonlight. At least this way, she would live her life true to her ambitions, albeit with an empty heart.

Another swig delayed her dejected thoughts temporarily, but clearly, something was wrong with her, something fundamental and powerful. What kind of emotional screw-up could feel so deeply for one man, and yet, somehow stupidly believe that she could survive on adoration from another? The sliver of clear mind that she still retained offered the painful answer—the one that doesn't want to be alone. Her darkest days, both as a child and as an adult, had been solitary, scratching and clawing for survival and purpose. Maybe it was time to accept and embrace the fact that alone was what she needed to be, that it was the only thing she could be.

Silencing the sober traitor, she took a long draw on her new-and-very-much-improved glass, and her eyes noticed a plain, ivory-colored roll of parchment on the floor. Jordis often placed incoming letters on her table, and her earlier errant throw of her cloak must have upset it. Curiosity driving her, she managed to clumsily pick it up with her free hand and then tried to return to her chair. Unfortunately, her feet seemed to have other plans, and she somehow ended up on the bed. She would have to look into getting a new carpet, as this one was far too lumpy and dangerous.

Knowing that brandy-induced sleep would find her soon, she wiggled and fussed her way out of her dress and bodice, and chucked them onto the floor. Good enough for now, she thought, as she pulled the uncooperative nightgown over her head. That chore done, and despite her growing lack of coordination, she nursed another drink from the bottle as she tore the seal off the parchment. Her blurry eyes somehow managed to focus on the beautiful, flowing scrawl:

_Stormblade,  
>Please forgive this quasi-violation of our contract. I realize that, technically, I've not broken our arrangement, but it still probably violates the spirit; and I pray that I haven't earned your anger, as I have no desire to see an end to this blissful existence. I am enjoying my new life, with my new husband, immensely, and I have absolutely no regrets. However, news of Skyrim still eventually makes its way here, and I have been deeply moved by your commitment to the city. I'll admit to being sadly unaware of the fact that you and I shared a hometown, but in retrospect, it makes perfect sense—Solitude makes strong women with strong opinions. I'd like to think that perhaps, under different circumstances, we could have been allies or even friends, and it comforts me to no end to know that I left Solitude in your capable hands. I wanted to personally thank you for your efforts, as I know that the task was probably made that much more difficult considering with whom you've had to work the closest. I can honestly say that I don't despise him nearly as much as I used to after our illuminating conversation. Maybe, one day, I will be able to forgive him for what he did to me and my beloved, but that time is long in coming. Besides, I suspect that he doesn't care for my forgiveness. I can only hope that he has earned yours, and that you two have found a way to make it work. Take care.<em>

The note was unsigned, but she didn't need a signature to know who it was from. The woman had some nerve, but she smirked as she realized that if the tables were turned, she probably would have done the same thing. It gave her a small bit of comfort to know that Elisif, at least, appreciated and recognized her work for the city; she just didn't need the reminder of her failure to reconcile whatever she may have had with Ulfric. But, it was not due to a lack of trying on her part—she had made her expectations and demands clear all along, just as he had made it clear that she wasn't worth the price.

Head back, she drained the remainder of the decanter, and angrily hurled it across the room towards the far wall. The pop of shattering glass rang out, shards and chunks flying in all directions, but it did little to appease her. So much for self-control, she thought bitterly. No more pleas, no more letters, no more thinking about him, she argued to herself. Who cares if he wasn't taking visitors? Why was that her problem? Eyes closed, she fell back into the pillows, and the pitter-patter of frozen rain on the roof lolled her into sweet drunken oblivion.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N** – I have quite the quandary on my hands, and I am not entirely sure how I am going to deal with it. This is the T-rated ending of For the Cause. I ended it here, so that it would stay true to the original rating of the story. However, I have written more, that not only goes a little further, but definitely gets racier. I am going to have a few people read it, and see if they think it would fit under the M-rating that this site offers. If so, I will change the rating and post the additional chapter. If not, I will post it on an alternative site, and give everyone a link, that way they can choose whether or not to read it. Personally, I think that it's M-material, but I do not want to offend anyone or lose my account, so I'd rather err on the side of caution. So, if you're not a fan of mature content, I would offer to you to read this chapter, and nothing more. For everyone else, look for the next chapter update and/or author's note with link shortly.

**P.S.** - Today's my birthday...I'd love some review presents!

**Disclaimer** – Bethesda owns Skyrim and its characters. I just have incredible fun with them.

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><p>Sliding, she felt the slight tug of gravity on her hip, the support of the mattress giving way under her thigh. Shifting with the movement, she barely registered the coolness of a pillow under her cheek. Eyelids fluttering, the apparition appeared out of the very substance of night, shadow and outline all she could see, the burned-out remains of the fire casting a barely there glow. Perched on the edge of her bed, like a crow watching his field—it was him, of course; only one haunted her in both moments of wake and sleep, yet she wouldn't have it any other way. Thank Talos for her vivid imagination because at least in her make-believe world she could have him.<p>

Moving languidly, she curled her left knee to her chest, and then, stretching, slid her lower leg across her fantasy's lap, haphazard and carefree. Running her fingers along his arm, she danced them up to his shoulder, and then into the strands of his untameable hair. He moaned, low and hungry, leaning his torso down towards her, his arm stretching possessively above and across her body to support his weight. She moved up to meet him, propped on one elbow, searching for the braid that graced his temple, and when she found it, slowly began its unraveling, running her fingertips against his scalp. Words dared to cross her lips, the safety of non-reality and the false bravado of liquor loosening them, "I've always been very fond of your hair. It's one of my most favorite of your features."

Her beloved incubus never spoke, a small failing by her subconscious in that regard, but she could overlook that discrepancy for the blissful pseudo-encounters she had been recently enjoying. He had been the subject of her dreams before of course, but they had all been rather tame in nature: words shared, hunts together—never anything quite so explicit. But, after his recent appeal to her primal side, her fantasies had taken an overt lean to the sexual, and she had absolutely no complaints. On the battlefield, many men had succeeded in bringing out the animal in her, but only Ulfric could do so in the bedroom. Moving closer in, her nose skimmed along his jaw and cheek, inhaling deeply, "And your scent...it drives me to the brink..."

Hushed and warm, his whisper called to her, "Feren..."

Dazed, she startled back, her eyes finding his in the dimness. They smoldered, a backdrop of icy-blue that held molten fire, and every fiber in her brain, both sober and not, screamed in unison. No dream this was, he was here. Here, in her bed. Paralyzed in awe and shock, movement, thought, and function all eluded her. Frozen like a statue, she waited for his reaction. Gasping, his words sounded like a warning, "This was not my intention, but I am only a man. Tell me no..."

No wasn't a word in her vocabulary any longer. Too close, dangerously close, instinct took the reins, making decisions while the rest of her muddled thought processes were banished by his proximity. Grabbing his hair tighter, she pulled him with her, falling back against the mattress. Hands pawed at her night clothes, roaming and seizing upon her body. Lips searched for hers in the darkness, claiming her mouth as his fingers threaded into her hair—needy and wanton. She hooked her other leg around his waist, trapping him, and he broke away groaning as she giggled inanely. He froze, peering down at her accusingly with his voice ragged, "You're drunk..."

Shrugging sloppily, she crookedly smiled, "Well, I wouldn't be if you had let me sleep. But, now, you've disturbed me...and I must say that I enjoy this kind of wake up call."

"I don't bed intoxicated women."

Laughing, she slurred, "Right, right...High-King Ulfric would never do such a lecherous thing. He just shows up unannounced, in the middle of the night, to darn your socks."

The corner of his mouth twitched, repressing a smile, she knew, "It's late but I would hardly call it the middle of the night. I intended to speak with you, but I couldn't rouse you, and now I know why."

"And you normally initiate conversations in bed?"

His eyes turned dark, as black as liquid onyx, insatiable, "You called my name."

Grateful, she was, for the darkness that masked the crimson glow of her cheeks, "I was dreaming."

"Pleasantly?" Transfixed, she watched his Adam's apple bob as he struggled through the words.

"Yes...very much so." Squirming under his unmoving stare, her legs twitched in defiance of their impasse. She didn't want words right now from him, she craved action. Emboldened by her liquid courage, she teased, "If you intend to talk, we should get out of the bed."

He nodded half-heartedly, but didn't move to escape. She continued, "Or...we could stay here and communicate in other ways..."

"You are absolutely maddening. I told you no. Do not taunt a mammoth, lest you get its tusks."

The grin spread across her face from ear to ear, "I happen to like your tusk."

Anguish settled on his features, the look of a man torn with his patience growing thin, "You're not going to make this easy for me are you?"

"Never. In fact..." she crooned, as she gently bucked her hips against him, "I plan to make it very hard for you."

His eyes closed, his face twisting and jaw clenching in frustration, and as he sighed, she took the opportunity to run her tongue along his clavicle. He pinned her down on the bed, his nails digging into the flesh of her upper arm. "I should go. Clearly, there will be no reasoning with you in your current condition, and I will not be partaking in anything else."

Fear...total and absolute illogical dread bubbled into her soul, making her stomach flip. Forgetting the sting of rejection—after all, that was well-trodden territory when it came to him—her hazy brain showed up long enough to remind her that there was something to focus on, something that had concerned her earlier about Ulfric. She couldn't quite grasp the concept at the moment, she just knew for a fact that he couldn't leave. The sheer panic induced by the thought was enough to convince her to wave the white flag.

"Stay. I'll behave," she offered softly.

His eyebrows rose in disbelief as her leg flopped to the mattress and her hands pulled away from his hair. She turned them palm side up, flat against the bed, prone and useless. Ernest but so confused—unable to make heads or tails of her emotions, her apology was full of shame, "I'm sorry, Ulfric. I know it's wrong, but I just wanted..."

The dam broke, her threadbare control snapping under the weight of liquor and desire. Tears, thick and heavy, rolled uncontrollably from her eyes, her whispered voice mangled by sobs. "You...I just wanted you."

Suddenly crushed against his chest, her whimpers sounded weak and pitiful in her own ears. "Please don't beg for this, Feren. Even drunk, when I should refuse you—I will falter, and I don't want to be an accomplice to something you may regret later."

She wanted to argue that point, but his hold soothed her into quiet, the beating of his heart a melody that could charm the most savage of beasts. Eventually, he shifted, pulling her alongside of him with her back against his chest. His hand settled on her hip, and she tangled her fingers with his, pulling his arm across her chest. If she held him there, he couldn't leave. "Don't go," her lips fumbled the sounds, barely functioning.

"Sleep, Feren. You travel tomorrow and that requires rest."

It wasn't a promise, but she wasn't capable of responding any longer. Eyes heavy, she had never been more eager to sleep, the presence of his body and the warmth of his hands more enticing than any brandy. As she drifted, thoughts became even more jumbled, disintegrating into blurs of words and emotions; but, she struggled to listen when she heard his melancholy voice, distant and quiet, as if he were admitting to some terrible crime. "I came to you to see if this was really goodbye—but, I cannot bear for it to be so."

With him as her talisman, she fell willingly into the abyss of sleep.

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Furry, her tongue felt like a Morrowind peach, and her throat burned from the lack of moisture. Tangled and restrained, she moved her arms, breaking free of the sheets. Reaching, she found the edge of the mattress, but no body. Opening her eyes, the earliest light of dawn basked the room in a pale glow, and she scanned for any sight of him. Even in the residual fog of too much brandy, she remembered the startling realization that he had really been in her bed. Yet, he was not here now, and there was no sign that he had ever been. Confusion added to her growing nausea as her stomach reminded her how impetuous she had been. Had Ulfric been in her room? His hands on her body, his lips on her mouth—it had all seemed so real—even his subsequent refusal of her seemed painfully authentic. But, her bitter, logical mind, aided by sobriety, quickly jumped to the obvious conclusion: it made no sense for him to just show up and leave without any explanation, unless her advances had really made him so uncomfortable that he felt the need to exit without a confrontation. That would be very much unlike Ulfric, and it was far more likely that the combination of alcohol and unrequited desire had conjured his appearance from the depths of her subconscious.

Groaning, she sat up slowly, concerned with the mounting vertigo she felt. Clearly, she had overdone it, and now the pounding in her head confirmed that fact. The obnoxious morning chirping of birds outside of her window reminded her that Jordis would be along soon to wake her, and she didn't want the girl to see her in such terrible shape. Standing slowly, she crossed the room to her wardrobe, finding her riding clothes amongst its contents. Before dressing, the basin of water resting on her shelf beckoned to her, and she splashed some of it onto her face and arms, hoping that it would make her feel more refreshed and alert. The rapping of fist against wood caught her attention, and she watched the door slip open; through the crack she could see her housecarl's form.

"Thane...I just wanted to make sure that you were awake."

"I am, Jordis. Will you please take word to the stable—have them get Banshee ready. I intend to ride shortly."

The woman nodded, closing the door, and she proceeded to get herself together as much as her overindulgence would allow. A few moments later, after forcing down some plain toast, she closed the door to Proudspire, mentally offering her goodbye to the place that she had called home for several months. As she moved through the city, she noticed few people about, most still slumbering in their homes. Leaving at dawn had been an intentional choice on her part, as the least number of people would be around and underfoot. There was no need for attention. Passing through the city gate to the stable, the guardsmen nodded their heads in respect, and she returned the gesture. Down the hill, the newly fallen snow crunching too loudly under her boots, she rounded the corner to see many smiling faces, all familiar, staring back at her. Surprised, she stopped in her tracks, unable to get her tongue to function.

Galmar's gruff tone teased her, "Did you think that you would be able to sneak out of here with getting a proper send-off?

Taarie, Erikur, Hjorunn, and so many others stood in a semicircle in front of the stable, presumably waiting for her appearance. Footsteps approached from behind her, and then she heard Jordis' timid voice, "It's my doing, Thane. They wanted to know when you were leaving, and I couldn't refuse them the right to say farewell."

She barely processed the handshakes and warm wishes for safety and satisfaction, as well as the demands for often return visits to the city. It was a moving gesture, something she had not expected or required, but it still touched her to think that these people recognized her work and cared enough to make it known that both her and her efforts would be missed. Something nagged at her though; disappointment, she realized, at who wasn't there to wish her happiness. After all else had said their farewells, Galmar approached her, bringing Banshee by the bridle. Once he was close enough, she murmured, "I'm surprised that you're here. Although, on second thought, you are probably glad to be rid of me."

He shook his head, exasperated, a rare smile gracing his grizzled features, "That's bullshit and you know it. I like you, Stormblade—no matter my opinions on anything else. I said my peace last night, and now I have to let things fall where they may. I just know that the two of you are going to drive me to an early grave."

"Early?"

He grabbed her into a bear hug, squeezing the life out of her, "I would wish you safe travels, but I am more worried for anyone who tries to waylay you. Don't beat anyone too badly, Stormblade."

"It's Feren, to you, you pain in the ass," her words muffled against his breastplate.

He laughed, "Is it now? I thought that honor was meant for Ulfric, and we wouldn't want to make him jealous now would we?"

She was about to respond, when that voice, _his_ voice, came from behind her, "Not even on your best day, my friend."

Breaking free of the embrace, she turned and there he stood, dressed in his riding gear and unbelievable smile, with his horse by the bridle. Her mouth must have hung open, because over the din of gathered voices, she could hear Galmar start cackling behind her.

"What...are...you...doing?" dumbfounded, she could barely form the syllables, overlooking his smug response.

He took a step towards her, and his voice boomed, using the same authoritative but demonstrative tone that she had seen beguile so many. "I would follow you, if you will allow it. Our friends have all come to say goodbye to _us_."

Nearer still he came to her, his eyes never moving, boring straight into hers. "I cannot stand by and just watch you leave again. Solitude needs you, Skyrim needs you...and _I_ need you. But, if you cannot stay and you must go, then so will I."

Somewhere deep in her chest, the tiny flicker that she still carried for him burned like a towering inferno. His very public declaration left her head spinning, and it worsened when he stood in front of her, invading her space with his presence. Now, his voice was like velvet, soft and low, for her ears only, "Give me the second chance you gave Elisif—show me the same mercy. I know that words often fail us, Feren—we somehow end up fighting instead of coming to any real resolution. But our interactions, they have never failed to deliver the right message. So, I will follow you to Riverwood, and I will make a claim to fight for what is mine."

She listened to his promise wordlessly, its ferocity inciting goosepimples to rise on her flesh. It rolled over her like a cleansing wave, washing away the pain she carried in her heart. She shook her head, and for the first time in all her days of knowing him, she saw fear cloud his eyes. She smiled slightly, trying to ease his worry, "You don't need to do this..."

He cut her off, panic in his tone, "I do, Feren. You were right—Elisif was willing to do whatever it took, to give up everything and anything for what she wanted. I am willing to make that same commitment. Please, let me prove it to you."

She raised a finger to his lips, and he quieted instantly. "You don't need to fight for what is already yours."

He looked relieved but befuddled at the same time, so she explained further, "I came to the realization that I couldn't be another man's wife. My trip to Riverwood was to tell Ralof so."

His hands reached for her, and in a blur, she found herself in his embrace, her arms instinctually wrapping around his neck. She felt his lips against the soft flesh of her shoulder, and the answering moan she emitted passed effortlessly, the heat spreading down her body. Her knees wobbled, the effects of her hangover and him combining to bring her down. Puffs of air swirled on her ear, "Did he make you feel like this, Feren?"

She couldn't lie. "No. Never."

His answering, possessive growl made her shiver. "Good."

Someone coughed, clearing their throat, and she remembered that they were standing in the middle of a stable, surrounded by people. She took a step back, but he refused to drop his arms, leaving his hands clinging loosely to her hips. He smirked, his voice still low, "Can I convince you to delay our departure? So that we can finish this discussion somewhere more private?"

The tone of his voice left little to be imagined of his motives, but she had a terrible weakness to tease him. "Why would that be necessary?"

Peals of delight erupted from her throat as he picked her up like a sack of potatoes, throwing her body over his shoulder. She stilled long enough to hear his husky voice whisper, "You would further taunt me with words, after the torment you subjected me to last night?"

Her eyes widened uncontrollably, the admission confirming his presence in her bedroom, and she was grateful he couldn't see her face. Chuckling lightly, she tried to sound nonplussed, "I can be persuaded to leave in a few hours..."

"Laugh now, but you won't be once we make it back to Proudspire. I'm not sure a few hours will be enough..."

That threat made muscles long dormant and unused clench in anticipation. He carried her defiantly back towards the city, their combined laughter breaking the silence of early morning.


	19. Chapter 19

**WARNING: DO NOT CONTINUE READING IF YOU ARE OFFENDED BY M RATED MATERIAL. **

**A/N** – I wrote the last chapter with the intention that it could serve as an ending for those of us who do not enjoy adult content. I also warned everyone that this was coming, so that they could choose to bow out. I struggled with posting this chapter, but I think that it safely fits within the guidelines of M-rated material on this site. I have never written anything like this before, but I felt like Feren and Ulfric deserved it. And so, my dear readers, we have met the end.

**Disclaimer** – I do not own Skyrim or its characters. For the final time.

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><p>The stairs bobbed erratically in the view from her precariously perched position, the bull-headed, winded man who carried her absolutely refusing to let her down the entire way from the stable. Needless to say, the faces of the gate guards had been rather priceless, and several townsfolk got an unexpected eyeful this particular morning. A sight to behold, she was certain, faces flushed and boisterous, playful arguments interrupting the serenity, but she could not have possibly cared less. Her motion ceased as they finished the ascent up the stairs and onto the landing of Proudspire. She heard him jiggle the door handle as he cursed under his breath, "Damn it, Jordis."<p>

"Guess you'll finally have to put me down," smugness oozed from her every word, her victory finally assured.

"Surely you know me better than that by now. Where's your key?"

"Don't have one...that you can reach," she playfully crowed, the knowledge that her travel satchel was safely crushed between her abdomen and his shoulder giving her some leverage.

Devilish, she could almost hear his smile, "Well then, I guess I'll just have to kick this door in..."

Damn him, his obstinance, and the growing, irritating concern she had for the fixtures of her home. Bracing a hand not too gently against his lower back, she pushed herself off of him enough to reach in her pack, and grabbed the key. Feeling her movement, he whispered a warning, low and seductive, "We have to get in this house now, Feren—or I am going to ravage you right here on this porch."

Thoughts of the show that her neighbors would receive hastened her efforts, and she threw herself back, flexing her lumbar muscles, so that she straightened up in his arms. He held her thighs tightly against his chest as she towered above him, staring down onto his handsome face. She ran her fingers along his cheek, pulling the key along it gently, "Then put me down, you stubborn ass, and I will let us in."

He lowered her slowly to the ground, dragging her against him, and she involuntarily shivered at the friction between them. Gods help her, he was such a tease, but two could play this game. Turning, she took a step forward, unlocking the door and pushing it open. Then, she looked intentionally over her shoulder at him, tilting her head towards the entryway, and bolted.

Two peals of her laughter rang through the air before the door slammed, and she had barely made it into the living room when he pounced on her. Sweeping her into his arms from behind, he spun her like a top, smashing his lips into hers. He tasted like sweet rolls and sin, and she was just as easily drunk on him as she had been on brandy. Stumbling and unaware, she thought she felt the solidness of wood beneath her bum as he lifted her onto a surface. Her teeth found his neck, and he groaned as he pulled at the latches of her body armor. "Bedroom?" she breathlessly asked near his ear.

"Too far," he growled as he ripped her armor from her torso. The clattering of dishes and utensils to the floor met her ears as he grabbed her legs, rolling her backwards—her shoulders making contact with what she now knew to be the kitchen table. His fingers caressed her shins as they searched for the buckles of her greaves, removing them easily, and her boots, his next target, met the same fate. In what seemed like an instant, she was armorless, dressed simply in her underclothes. His mouth began at her neck, while his devious fingers traced a deliberate path down and along every inch of her body, across her navel and further, taking the hem of her dress. He rolled it up, and she lifted her hips slightly to allow its passage up and over her chest and head. Eager for him to follow suit, she reached for the buckles on his shoulder, and he grabbed her hand, bringing it back to his lips as he kissed it softly. Confused, she watched his mouth work down her arm, to her elbow, and then jumping the short span to her hip as she realized his intention. Some very small, prudish part of her begged for intervention, as this was uncharted territory, but she could barely hear its pleas over the pounding of her thundering heart. She shuddered as his mouth caressed her inner thigh, and any thoughts of stopping his procession went out the window, followed closely by her sanity. Her ears barely caught his awed words, "Dibella crafted your body, and Talos your heart. My eyes have never seen such beauty..."

His mouth was upon her, and she rose off the table, her hips bucking against the unseen force that was his desire. Her fingers dug into the unyielding wood, trying to find purchase, as screams of joy and mercy leapt from her throat, while his tongue and lips did things to her that her feeble brain couldn't even fathom. His arms restrained the erratic thrusts of her pelvis, his blunt nails digging into her thighs, pinning her unrelentingly to his face. Thoughts ceased, and sensations of him crowded her mind: the sound of him moaning with her, the lapping of his tongue against her sensitive flesh, the sight of his head between her legs. Building, a fire surged in her chest, and her spine curled in defiance of the passion, her body instinctually bracing for what it knew would shatter her. Imploding, her world splintered, her body heaving as it was wrecked by the power of her orgasm.

At some point, she regained the ability to coherently process thoughts, and she heard his voice whisper in her ear, "It's impossible to get enough of you, Feren. Every minute of every day I have left, but it still will not quench this thirst."

Her lips found his, the taste of her own fluids not unpleasant. Her fingers remembered that he was still clothed, and she grabbed at the armor on his chest, pulling wildly. Straightening up, he loomed over her, removing the barrier, and soon, he joined her in the bliss of nudity. She tried to wrap her legs around him, but he took a step back, and she unconsciously whimpered at the retreat. "Oh no, my dear," his voice thick and heavy in lust, "I'm not going to take it that easy on you."

He seized her arm, flipping her over on the table, and she felt the warmth of his body as he leaned over her from behind. Grabbing her hair and twisting it in his fingers, she gasped as he pulled her up and off the table. Her back collided with the flat of his chest, her elbows instinctively bracing on the wood. His other hand caressed her stomach, making innocent little circles on her abdomen. "You told me that you dreamed of me, Feren, so I'm going to share one of mine with you. Do you remember the ride through the swamp after Solitude?"

Blood racing in her veins, her breath quickened at the recall his words caused—never would she forget the way he had felt against her after years of absence. Syrupy and sticky-sweet, he cooed in her ear, "It was torture, just as painful as any I have experienced at the hands of an enemy. But this...this was beautiful and exquisite in nature. Every glorious inch of your form was pressed to mine, cresting and receding with the landscape of the wilderness. It was like I was sharing a horse with Skyrim incarnate, a woman just as fierce and formidable. The experience was unlike any other I have ever known—so powerfully intimate and so passionately driven. Then, when I thought I could be no more tormented, you leaned up in the saddle, and I got a view of every sculptured muscle of your leg..."

His hand ran down her stomach, across her hip, grabbing the top of her thigh. "It took every shred of restraint that I ever possessed to not take you right then and there. But in my dreams, I had my way with you over and over and over again."

Fingernails raked her skin, dragging up and across her ass as he grasped her waist roughly, pulling her against him. Voice hoarse, he murmured, "And now, I'm going to make it reality."

Moaning, she could feel the length of him against her inner thigh, and then, magnificent fulfillment as she expanded to the rapturous limit. She cried out, the sensation fantastic, her voice unsteady, "Ulfric..."

It took whatever meager coordination she could manage to withstand his barrage, the muscles of her limbs flexing in unison with his thrusts. He freed her hair, wrapping one arm around her shoulders while the other supported her hips. Cocooned in his embrace, their connection was more than just physical, and it was too much to bear. Hissing in her ear, he commanded, "Yield to me Feren..."

Heady and yearning, her mind, body, and soul gave in easily to the order, and the combined sounds of their climaxing union filled her ears, heralding her into sex-sweetened overload.

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Fluid and loose, her limbs felt like jelly, the feeling of complete and utter contentment ruining her to any thoughts of breaking the contact she was making with her lover at the moment. Forming a living knot, a tangle of arms and legs made it impossible to figure out where he began and she ended, and that pleased her tremendously. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the blond strands of hair on his chest back and forth, making little patterns across his pectoral muscles. She felt his lips moving against her temple, "What a difference a mere few hours makes."

She nodded, a smile on her mouth at the thought, as he continued, "When I came here last night, I had every intention of letting you go."

Unconsciously, she clung to him a little tighter, digging her fingers into his skin as he continued, "After you gave me your resignation, I knew that I had somehow managed to botch it again; only this time, you had found someone else. I knew that you deserved a chance at happiness, even if it wasn't with me, but I also knew that he was unable to give it to you. Then when I came face to face with losing you last night...I just couldn't do it. I am a selfish wretch."

"Ulfric..." she tried to interrupt, but he grabbed her chin, lifting and turning her face to his.

"No, Feren. This time, you will hear my confession. I will lay everything at your feet, and if you still care for me after the truth of all of it, then I will be the luckiest man in Tamriel."

The words were full of anguish, from a man ready to unload the weight he bore on his shoulders. She stilled her tongue, locking her eyes to his, and nodded her head ever so slightly in acquiescence.

"For so long I have tried to deny that you are the very center of my existence. The sun may give life to Skyrim's crops, and Secunda may control its tides, but the power you possess over me dwarfs their puny reach in comparison. I was so deeply ashamed of what I felt for you."

Stiffing involuntarily, it didn't matter that he held her as he said the words, but he was quick to respond to her body language, "In the past, Feren. Please understand...I saw it as an unacceptable weakness, that the only thing that should matter to a jarl or a king is his land. From a child, I was raised to care about nothing more than one's power and influence. My father lived by example—he respected my mother, but there was no devotion between them. He had many women, but there was none that he cared for more than Skyrim. It's what made him an excellent leader, and it's where I failed to follow in his footsteps."

Running a finger along her shoulder blade, he continued, "A challenge...that's what you were at first to me, a servant who had the sheer audacity to question me before you had even earned a title in my court. I still clearly recall that day, the passion that burned in your eyes over the elves of Windhelm. I expected to be annoyed, but instead I found myself intrigued—your candor and demands for clarity refreshing. A ruler can be surrounded by a thousand yes-men, but he relies heaviest on the ones who have the nerve to tell him no."

Smirking, she couldn't contain the grin that spread across her face. He smiled back at her, eyes sparkling, "But, as I grew to knew you, I found that there was so much more to understand. Curiosity begat respect and admiration, and when I had realized what was happening—I was already too far gone. I fought so hard against the feelings that I had for you; my bruised ego simply refused to believe that I had succumbed to something so commonplace and trivial. Every time I felt that I had broken free of your spell, you would easily reel me right back in, and I hated myself more and more for each and every downfall. But, none of it prepared me for the absolute self-loathing I had when you attributed my shame to your race."

To emphasize his point, he ran his lips along the top of her pointed ear, and she couldn't stop the tremor that ran through her body. "Have a thing for elves do you?" she teased softly.

"I have a thing for _you_, Feren. After that, not much else matters."

His wandering mouth found the skin on her clavicle, and she groaned in grateful response. His tone changed, becoming playful, "Though, I will admit that you're not the first elf I have admired."

Her lips corkscrewed sourly, and he laughed as she sulked, "That admiration had better have been with your eyes only."

"Considering it was a man, and I was judging an archery contest, I'd say it's a safe bet."

Her laughter joined his, and he pulled her even closer to him, her heartbeat quickening at the lack of space between them. Silence passed, until she heard him take a deep breath, and his voice cracked sadly.

"I had no disgust for your race then, just as I have none now. But, shame and hatred of my own failings became fear once I realized and accepted just how far I had fallen for you. For a man who has never known such intimacy, the terror I felt was all-encompassing. I did care for others, but concern for them on the battlefield never entered my mind—revolutionaries cannot afford such second guesses. For the first time in my existence, I experienced true and absolute panic—that you would come to harm fighting under my banner, or even worse, death, because it could take you away from me; and the closer we grew, the more irrational it became. War is a game of attrition—sacrifices made and advantages earned—but it could never be you. You are the only person in this entire realm who can undo me so completely, and that in and of itself, is dangerous. It makes you a target, one that I cannot afford to lose."

He paused, his hand stroking the side of her face, "Pride, shame, fear...it all kept me then from telling you so much—but none of it will stop me now. I love you, Feren. You consume every thought I have, and I will prove it to you with every minute of every day I have until Sovngarde calls. Wherever I have to go, whatever I have to do, whomever I have to outlast...I will."

Her fingers found his beard, tracing the path a lone tear forged from his eye. Adamant, his voice beckoned to her heart, "If you have no want to live in Solitude, we will go where you deem. If I have to prove to everyone in Skyrim that I adore you, than I will follow you around like a lovesick sap until we have passed through each and every hold. I have fought so hard to be High-King, so many have died for the cause, but I will give up my throne..."

She shook her head, refusing that option outright. "I would never take that from you, Ulfric. Nor would I take you from Skyrim. But, I could be convinced to share..."

Kissing her forehead, she could feel the smile form on his lips as he spoke, "Your benevolence knows no bounds."

"The court can have you during the day, as long as I get you at night."

Narrowing, his eyes grew serious, but he tried to sound light, full of jest, "You could spend your days with me as well...Solitude is still in need of a jarl."

She bristled in his arms, old wounds and her own insecurities rearing their combined ugly head. She turned away, trying and failing to take the sting out of her tone, "Then, I suggest that you keep searching."

He moved like lightning, grabbing her by the shoulders and pinning her against the bed while staring her down, "Look at me, Feren. What is so repulsive to you about being jarl? Why are you so defensive?"

She could barely bring herself to do so, meeting his stern gaze half-heartedly. "I have no need for its trappings and inconveniences, and I have no desire to be anything other than myself."

He sighed, disappointment in his tone, "That's just it. You have rightfully earned the position by simply being yourself. You have fought for this country tirelessly, and you have rebuilt it with your effort and cunning. Even without my help, you still would have risen through the ranks of the army, and if you chose, taken a position in someone's court. I may be offering to speed you along the path, but I have no doubt that you would have made it there on your own."

"Convenient for you then, that it also makes me an ideal candidate for queen."

Laughing, his body shook against her in the most pleasant of ways. "I won't deny that the thought of you as queen thrills me, but putting all of my ambitions for you aside, I will support whatever makes you happiest, Feren. Just tell me."

"You, and you alone. No titles necessary."

"What about wife?"

Stunned by the direct question, she laid there saucer-eyed, barely able to breathe, let alone speak. He continued, "Marry me, Feren. I have wasted so much precious time between us—I won't stand to let any more pass. It need not be formal—we can tell everyone or no one, whichever you desire. You do not have to wear the mantle of jarl or queen, but please be my wife."

Snapping, her heart broke in her chest upon hearing his plea. Consumed by her own inferiority complex, she had been blind to all else, to the point of being an absolute idiot. Ulfric wanted to marry her, and she had finally found a title that she desperately wanted. Shameful tears burned her cheeks as he pressed on, "I was such a fool, Feren; I couldn't grasp how much you meant to me. You were never lacking; I was the deficient one—short-sighted and incapable of giving you the love and honor that you deserved. I wanted to keep you, like a possession, when what you needed was a man who was brave enough to face his own shortcomings. I'm only sorry that it has taken me so many years to finally become that man. If you give me the chance to be your husband, I will worship you and cherish every moment we have together; and maybe, with proof of my adoration and time's passage, you'll reconsider and choose to be my queen."

She sighed, his words a balm to the ache, "It would not be easy, you know."

Optimistically hesitant, he offered, "No—but few things worth accomplishing are. Even though there is no law written against it, I am sure there will be opposition to you taking the throne. Some will claim I am playing favorites, others will whisper about your heritage. But, if you're with me, Feren, nothing can stand in our way."

A smile spread across her lips, his idealism infectious, as she finally managed to push herself away from his clingy hands, rising out of the bed. Stretching, she reached for her nightgown, pulling it over her head. She would need to venture downstairs to find her armor, and she wanted to be decent just in case Jordis had returned home. She watched his eyes follow the hem down, over her breasts and hips, and he leaned forward, trying to grab her knee. She sidestepped him easily, and he pouted in response, his lip curling like a horseshoe, which was almost enough to make her climb back under the covers. Hand flopping dramatically on the mattress, he grumbled, "Clearly, it's time to get ready for our trip."

She took a deep breath, realizing that she was about to broach an unpleasant subject. Peering at him through doughy eyes, she pleaded, "I should make the journey to Riverwood alone."

In an instant, he was out of the bed, pulling her into his arms as he demanded, "Absolutely not."

She took a page from his book, fingers finding his cheek, guiding his eyes to hers, "Ralof gave me the chance to say goodbye, Ulfric, and I owe him the same. He was a good friend to me, and I hope that he will continue to be. If there is any chance of that, I need to speak with him one on one—it wouldn't do to rub this in his face."

Trepidation heavy in his tone, he asked quietly, "And if he tries to stop you?"

Boggled, she couldn't understand his reaction. Didn't she just spend a few very pleasant hours in his arms? Didn't he just ask her to live the rest of her life with him—why wouldn't she come back? Then, it hit her. Exposed, totally and completely vulnerable, he needed her commitment now. Not just actions, but words—as true and heartfelt as the ones he had given to her. Just like a game of Riften stud, it was make or break, time to ante up and lay all of the cards on the table. Fervent, she swore, "He cannot. Nothing will keep me from coming back to you—all roads lead to you."

She heard his breath catch in his throat, but she didn't waver. "I've loved you for so long, Ulfric. If you'll have me, and all of me, I will be your wife and, one day, your queen. I would stay forever."

Her feet were off the ground before the words left her mouth, and she found herself being carried back toward the bed. She laughed playfully, until she saw the look of desperation and longing in his eyes.

"Again."

She paused, unsure that she heard him correctly. He growled, "Say it again."

Feral and needy, his demand was finally understood by some deep component within her heart. "I love you."

He hoisted her higher in the air, and she countered by wrapping her legs around his waist. Gently, he carried them onto the mattress, crawling on his knees towards the headboard. He settled in with her seated in his lap, and she bent her knees, straddling him, her hands finding the broad expanse of his chest to steady herself. His hands pulled her arms above her head, removing the nightgown, throwing it across the room. She felt his knees rise behind her, and she relaxed into them, laying back as his mouth made its way to her breasts. Her fingers tangled in his hair, grasping onto it like the rein of a runaway stallion. He sighed, hungry and apologetic, "I need you."

His voice drove chills up her spine, and she lifted her hips, sliding down along his girth, her body screaming at the stretching and tension. His lips silenced her, tasting her gently, and she eagerly responded, tongue twisting with his in a maddening eternal dance. Sovngarde, the forests of the void...she wasn't sure which version of the afterlife she believed in, but none of them could compete with the heaven created by her man. The two of them ceased to be, merging into one: every ragged breathe he took, she felt it burn in her lungs; every needy groan he made, she felt it form in her throat; every excited cry he called, she felt it sing from her heart. When her legs grew weak from exertion, he was her strength, rocking her gently against his body. When his arms were heavy from use, she was his motivation, driving him onward with her thighs. Perspiration collected on his brow, his movements becoming frantic, and she knew that he was about to lose control. Her hands gripped his face, kissing away the watery beads as he shuddered, the roar of his final satisfaction a match to ignite her own inferno as they spiraled downward into ecstasy together.


	20. Note

**A/N** - Hello everyone! Long time, no story. But, as you can tell, I plan on remedying that. I admit to being lax in marking "For the Cause" complete, as I had hoped to come back to it, and end it with an epilogue chapter. However, that process was waylaid for several reasons, none of which I will bore you all with, except to say that life gets in the way. A few weeks ago, I revisited the effort, and my one chapter epilogue blossomed into a story in and of its own right. For this reason (and several others), I have posted it as a separate story, entitled "For the Truth."

I did, however, want to let anyone who may have followed/favorited "For the Cause" to know about its continuation, and so, I will end by saying, that if you are interested, "For the Truth" can be found here on this website, under my pen name.

Thank you!

Bleve


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